Running on Empty
by BeginningEnding
Summary: Post-finale, quite dark and will get darker, Andy/Sam pairing
1. Chapter 1

Summary: My take on the beginning of S2 (starts with the final scenes of S1). This is not how the show will take it, my version is too dark, but really, doesn't anyone else worry about how quickly Andy bounces back from all the horrific things that keep happening?

A/N: This is my first Rookie Blue fanfic. It's been a while since I was involved in a fandom, and I've only ever written one shots before. Working on dialogue for the next chapter. I want to make sure I get the characterisation right. And this was just bubbling away for me, so I started scribbling.

She'd been close to hyperventilating in the van on the way over to the warehouse. The thought of Sam being hurt or even dead, and it being _her fault ..._ It was all she could do to keep her breathing under control and to not throw up on Luke sitting next to her. Her pulse had spiked with every chirrup of the radio, and then the call for an ambulance had come through and she'd had to close her eyes at the terror that had washed over her.

_Let it not be Sam, __**please **__let it not be Sam ..._

And when they'd arrived, and seen the body bag, the fear had been so strong that she'd felt dizzy and seen spots in front of her eyes. Then someone had opened it and she'd seen it was Angel; the relief had been palpable, but the terror had still ruled until she'd heard him call her name, turned and seen him. She'd wanted to close her eyes at the sweet, sweet strength of the relief, at how the knowledge that he was safe, and whole, and _unharmed_ was letting her heartbeat slow and allowing her to breathe freely again.

She'd wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't look away from him, and the huge, almost manic grin on his face. She'd wanted to touch him and reassure herself that he was _really_ all right and _really _alive and _really here_. But that wouldn't have been appropriate so she held herself back. She'd wanted to kiss him, but that would have been _really_ inappropriate and she was pretty sure he didn't her any more – especially not after the way she had treated him. So she'd just stared at him while he'd talked, dredged up some response to him – even laughed along at some joke he'd made, but her heart wasn't in it – the fear was too recent, too fresh in her mind for that. She'd wanted to carry on just staring at him for as long as possible, to keep drinking in the sight of him for as long as he'd let her, but then he'd sent her after Luke – like she was some puppy following him around. And maybe that's all she was to him.

So she'd nodded, stopped staring and gone to Luke. He'd greeted her briefly, gently cradling her cheek in his hand. Luke kissed her forehead and wrapped her in a hug – one hand on the back of her head, the other on her lower back. In a flash she felt like it was so she couldn't get away. All the while she could feel Sam's eyes burning in to them.

Luke had pulled away after a brief time, told her that he was needed here, but that she should go back to the station.

She'd felt the same blank, dream like quality on the ride back. It wasn't until she was under the shower back at the station that joy had hit her. Joy for being alive, for Sam being alive, for both of them being _ok_. The feeling was so strong that she'd laughed with it and it had carried her through to laughing outside with the other rookies on the squad car, bright eyed with wonder at it all, that the world was painted with new colours just because Sam was alive.

They went to the bar, they drank. Sam didn't show – probably shook up, and Luke was still working, so she went home alone. She felt great, everything was just dandy, until she was asleep.

She dreamt. She dreamt that she hadn't been quite so clever – hadn't engaged that kid in conversation quite fast enough, hadn't asked the right questions to piss him off and to give her the information, hadn't had the guts to turn her back on him as quickly as she had, hadn't run fast enough, hadn't driven fast enough. The dream had slowed even further as she walked towards the body bag, and when the officer had unzipped it, the body hadn't belonged to Angel. It had belonged to Sam.

That was when she'd woken up, breathing slow, but heart pounding, slow yet so hard it hurt her with every thump.

She'd barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

She knew there was no way she was going back to sleep. No way. Not if there was any chance she'd be seeing Sam's lifeless face again, his eyes glassy, his skin greying. She curled up on her sofa and stared at whatever mindless program she could find on the TV. She quickly came to the conclusion that programming at 4am had gone downhill since the nights she'd spent waiting for her dad to stumble through the door during her teens. She had been hoping that she would doze off sitting there, but no such luck.

Come morning and the start of her shift she drank twice her normal dose of coffee and practically poured on foundation to sort out the circles under her eyes. She hoped. She smiled at everyone, said good morning, managed to seem normal. Luke dragged her into the interview room, and she was sure that, even to him, her kisses must seem lacklustre. He didn't notice though, or if he did, he didn't comment. It wasn't until she went into parade, until she caught Sam watching her out of the corner of her eye that she finally relaxed. Finally took a deep breath. Finally felt the fear leave her. He was alive. He was ok. He was here. She managed to pay attention, just. And in the car with Sam, she did her best to act normal – to smile and banter, but she knew the smile didn't reach her eyes, and that the banter didn't have its usual bite. And she knew he could tell.

Still. Fake it till you make it, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I had real problems with characterisation here. Sam is a _nightmare_ to get a handle on_._ Ben Bass is amazing - half of what Sam says, he says with his facial expressions. I hope I got it even close to the mark. Any suggestions for improvements are really welcome.

She went with Luke to his place that night. He wasn't busy with work. They discussed moving in to the new house together – he told her his offer had been accepted. She asked for a timetable, ostensibly so she could give notice on her apartment, but really she was giving herself a date on what felt like imprisonment.

When they made love later, and it was just that from him, making love, all gentle caresses and sweet kisses, she tried very hard to keep her mind on Luke and off the fact that the one kiss Sam had given her whilst they were undercover, whilst she was running on fear and adrenaline, had aroused her more than this whole … charade. She was so tired afterwards that she fell asleep almost immediately, but less than four hours later she was awake again; shaking, heart pounding after nightmares of Sam's lifeless face and blood soaked body. She stumbled from the bed, not caring if she woke Luke. She needn't have worried, he slept like a log, especially after sex. She spent the night much like the one before – staring zombie-like at the TV, but this time she slid back into the bed just before the alarm sounded so that Luke wouldn't know anything was wrong. As he woke, he turned and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her sleepily.

"Morning", he mumbled.

"Morning", she replied. She kissed him on the forehead in what she hoped was an affectionate gesture, before sliding out from under his arm and heading for the shower.

She tried not to think about how trapped she had felt by his embrace.

It wasn't until parade, when she saw Sam again, that the fear began to dissipate. It wasn't until they were in the squad car, where she could look at him, or at least keep him in the corner of her eye without it being weird, suspicious, that she began to feel at peace. To know that he was alive. It was at odds with the way she normally felt around him, at turns pissed off and anxious and unsure of herself and then completely calm, accepted and accepting, and always, always a hair's breadth off half aroused.

But as soon as he was out of her sight, the gnawing anxiety returned.

She carried on only managing to sleep a couple of hours a night until the last shift of her week. The same nightmare, every night, again and again and again. Lifeless brown eyes staring up at her again, and again, and again. By that point, she was running on empty – caffeine pills and coffee all that stood between her and keeling over from lack of sleep. So she decided that drastic measures were in order. She was going to the Penny and she was going to drink until she passed out. She knew it wasn't really a good idea, she knew it was probably the way her dad had started on his long road to alcoholism, but at that point she didn't care. She hadn't lied that night to Sam. She was tired of being scared, and now she was scared all the time, even more so than before, and she was just plain tired. So tired she couldn't eat, so tired she felt nauseous all the time. All she wanted was a night of sleep without visions of Sam's corpse.

But she still wanted to make sure that no one knew anything was wrong, so instead of sitting at the bar with the older cops and ploughing her way through a load of whisky, she did shots of tequila with the other rookies and tried to drop the impression of a zombie she'd been doing for the last few days. She laughed. She talked too much and too loud. And she flirted with pretty much anybody and everybody. At one point, Sam grabbed her.

"Did you have a fight with Callaghan or something?" he asked, and even in her drunken state, she could hear the combined concern and hope mingled in his voice, or maybe that was just something she imagined because it was what she wanted him to feel. For some reason, she found his question _incredibly_ funny and pretty much laughed in his face. She saw the anger this reaction caused, even eight shots of tequila to the wind, saw his defences go up, saw him getting ready to hide it with a flippant, half-bitter half-mocking comment.

"No. Luke is perfect, as always. Luke," and here she broke off with a bitter (to her ears) laugh "is always perfect. Ev-er-y-thing is _perfect_."

She could see the storm brewing behind is stone-faced mask. To forestall his next comment, which would no doubt have lead to an argument and them _both_ being pissed off, she placed a hand on his chest. She saw a muscle in his cheek twitch.

"Come on, Sam. Next round's on me. What do you want?"

She looked up at him through her lashes, half-smiling and bit her lip in unconscious imitation of just after he'd kissed her at the Mermaid Lounge. He shook his head in disbelief,

"You've had enough. Come on."

They'd been by the door already and he manhandled her out quickly enough that she could barely make any protest and that no one noticed them leave except Gail – and all she did was smirk and sip her drink.

"What are you doing, Sam?"

"Taking you home."

He pretty much dragged her over to his truck and pushed her inside. She gave up on fighting. She had scotch at home, she could just as well drink there. This way no one would notice how much she was drinking. Except Sam, apparently. And this way, maybe she could get him to come inside, stay. Maybe if there were nightmares even after as much alcohol as she intended to consume, seeing him immediately might calm her down enough to get back to sleep. A couple of minutes into the drive, Sam glanced over at her.

"Everything all right with your dad?"

She frowned at him, unsure why he was asking, "Yeah, at least I think so, as well as can be, I expect. Sober, which is something. And over the shakes."

She realised she was rambling and shut up, turning to stare out of the window.

"That's good. So what's eating you?"

She started laughing again, and didn't stop until they pulled up outside her building. "What's eating me? What's eating me, Sam? What are you, five?"

He smirked a bit. "Maybe, but it doesn't stop me being _right_. Something's wrong. I've never seen you act like this, so what is it?"

"Nothing, Sam. Nothing's wrong." She couldn't tell him that it was nightmares about something that _hadn't even happened. _That her behaviour was due to what was now an irrational fear of his death. She couldn't say it without feeling stupid – and without letting him know she cared about him more than he knew. More than she'd even admitted to herself.

"So why were you acting like that?"

"Acting like _what_, Sam?"

"Drinking too much, flirting with _every guy in the place_ – you've been out of it for days, and now this, McNally? What's brought it on?" He was angry now, she could see, and she was reacting to it in kind. Grateful to feel something other than mindless terror for the first time in a week.

"I was having some _fun_, Sam, something you seem to know nothing about. It's really none of your business that I do in my off time, with my friends."

"I thought we were friends." He smirked, let out a short bark of laughter. "I thought that was what you wanted, but excuse me, McNally. Excuse me for giving a damn, when you are clearly upset about _something_."

"I'm fine, Sam. There is absolutely nothing wrong." It was a lie. They both knew it. She was a terrible liar, and she was even worse when she was drunk.

"McNally ..." He sighed, paused as if collecting himself to give another of his great speeches. Right now she really didn't want to hear it. It wasn't going to make her feel better, it wasn't going to make the nightmares stop. Reminding her of how wonderful he was was only going to make her more dependent on him. "Whatever it is, getting out of your head like this isn't going to help. I know it seems like it will, but all it does is -"

She cut him off "Sam! Would you just stop? Stop pushing! You're always _pushing me _and it's too much. I've told you I'm fine, what more do you want from me?"

She saw the breath he took to answer her, but she couldn't stop feeling angry at him. If the anger went, all there was left was the fear, and she couldn't cope with feeling it any more. She just couldn't cope. So she said the only thing she was absolutely sure would shut him up.

"Luke asked me to move in with him. And I said yes."

She saw the look on his face, for just a split second; grief and rage and hatred and regret and other things she couldn't put a name to. Or maybe it was just a product of her imagination. Then it was replaced with the happy-go-lucky, self-mocking smirk she'd come to hate.

"Congratulations, McNally. Guess the benefits'll be more frequent now."

She didn't dignify his jab with a response. She was suddenly achingly, achingly tired.

"Good night, Sam. I'll see you on Monday."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I read the Hunger Games this week (it was very good, by the way). It's written in the present tense, and being the impressionable individual that I am, I promptly started writing in the present tense, which obviously doesn't mesh with the first two chapters (but did give me an idea for a later chapter). I went over this a number of times, and I *think* I caught all of the inconsistencies and got it into the right tense without it jarring too much, but if anyone spots a sneaky present tense verb one PLEASE tell me.**

**Thanks so, so much for all your reviews, it's definitely pushing me to keep going.**

She walked into her apartment feeling hollow, defeated. She pulled some scotch out of her cupboard and sat staring at it. It was a full ten minutes until she heard his truck pull away. Determinedly, she opened the bottle and took a long drink.

In the morning, she woke prone on the couch, in a pose some small part of her noted was worryingly reminiscent of her father. She resolutely refused to acknowledge it. The first thing her eyes focused was the three fingers of whisky on her table, all that was left in the bottle from the night before. Her head was pounding, she felt slightly nauseous and she was still exhausted, but she had been beautifully, _blissfully_, nightmare free. It had worked.

She was supposed to meet her father for lunch, but she couldn't face him. Not like this. So she phoned him and said she wasn't feeling well – it wasn't hard to summon up the raspy quality of a sore throat. He'd assured her gruffly that he was fine, that cancelling was OK, that he'd see her in a few days. He hadn't been drinking, she could tell from his voice. The irony wasn't lost on her.

A few hours later, she managed to stagger from her apartment to buy supplies; junk food and more scotch was all she could face. Luke was on shift for the days she was off, so she didn't (thank God!) have to deal with him. She spent her weekend in a drunken haze, progressing to oblivion each night.

She was lucky that she had the afternoon shift her next day back at work. It gave her the morning to sober up enough to face it. A long, hot shower and about a gallon of coffee left her feeling nearly human. She even managed to eat some toast – the first sensible thing to pass her lips in days. She still felt exhausted, but she hadn't had any nightmares, no dreams at all in fact, in three days. Today, she didn't feel fear gnawing in her belly. Mind you, today, she didn't feel much of anything at all.

She's not used to wearing much in the way of foundation. She's always had good skin, even as a teenager, and between that and her natural ability to tan, it was always a moot point. Today, though, she looked terrible – still sporting dark circles under her eyes and skin heading towards an unhealthy shade of green, so she gave it a shot. War paint on, ready to face the world, she headed in.

She grinned at Traci and they chatted about their weekends. She lied and said that she met up with her dad and nudged Traci into talking about Leo and Dex. Traci clearly had something on her mind, because she was easily led. As always, how much Traci adored Leo was clear as she talked about taking him to the park. Her feelings – or lack thereof – for Dex were clearly more complicated.

She sat in parade, resolutely keeping her eyes on Best at the front, and away from Sam. She knew that avoiding him wasn't going to work, not for long. Not with them sharing a cruiser that day, but she had no idea how to face him. She knew that he was furious with her after what she had said the other night – she could practically feel the waves of fury coming off him stood at the back of the room from where she was sat. She didn't want him angry with her, but she had no idea how to fix it. She acknowledged that it had always been him who had fixed things before when they'd pissed each other off. Especially on that God-awful car ride to Sudbury where she'd done everything, _everything_ she could think of and it hadn't worked, and all he'd had to do was crack one _terrible_ joke and it was all just … better.

She saw Luke in the corridor once parade was over and he asked about her weekend. She smiled and told him the same lie she had told Traci about her dad, attempting to infuse her voice with the right amounts of hope and enthusiasm. He didn't kiss her in the corridor – he knew how unprofessional she thought that public a display of affection would be. But he did take her hand in his.

"I'm glad." He said simply, and smiled. She just about managed to smile back.

"McNally!" She turned at Sam's bark before she could stop herself, with Luke now behind her still holding her hand. "Cruiser in five. You want coffee?"

He was looking at the coffee machine rather than at her, and for that she was intensely grateful. The second she had looked at him, she saw not the Sam in front of her, alive and well, but the Sam of her nightmares, dead grey skin with blood spattered over his face. She forced herself to speak.

"Yes, please." Before squeezing Luke's hand in farewell. She couldn't look at him either for the fear of the abject horror she knew was written all over her face, and the knowledge that whatever colour had been there must have been replaced with a sickening green-grey. She walked blindly to the women's locker room and managed to make it to the toilets before vomiting up what felt like everything she'd consumed in the last twenty four hours.

"Heavy weekend? You know, if you're still throwing up the next morning, it means you gave yourself alcohol poisoning."

She turned to find Gail behind her, whose face turned from disapproving to shocked as she looked.

"Jeez, you look like _crap._"

"Thanks Gail, I feel _much _better now."

Gail's eye had turned critical, running over her once before she turned and flounced off.

_Thank God for that, _she thought, leaning her forehead against the wall. She wanted to cry. The fear hadn't left her with the contents of her stomach; it was back full force. All the drinking she had done this weekend was for nothing, worse than nothing. She was still exhausted, sill terrified and now it was entirely possible that she was insane. She had just closed her eyes before Gail reappeared.

"Drink this" Gail ordered, holding out a bottle of lemonade.

She obediently took a gulp. "It's flat."

"Yeah, you don't want it fizzy to cure a hangover. Believe me." Gail then produced a couple of pills. "Advil. Take these as well. I'm guessing you don't want anyone to tell that you've spent the weekend drinking yourself under the table."

It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway, looking away and biting her lip.

"In that case," Gail raised an eyebrow "Who did your make up, your kid cousin?"

She scowled at Gail, who laughed.

"You got your make up with you? Good. Mine would be _way _to pale. Drink that, get your concealer and sit there."

Gail grabbed something from her own locker, before turning to find her still standing, make up in hand.

"I said I'd meet Sam in five minutes. It must have been that by now."

"This won't take long, I promise. Also, I can guarantee that you don't want to go out there looking like that."

"That bad?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost." She blanched at Gail's words and sat down.

Gail took a mix of the foundation and whatever it was she had retrieved from her locker.

"This stuff is genius. Pretty much got me through high school. Well, this and my sunglasses. Look up."

"It's hard to imagine you partying on a school night."

"And making sure I looked perfect in the morning."

Gail smirked and carried on applying the whatever-it-was.

"Look, whatever it is that's driven you to drink all weekend … There're a lot of people who'll be there to help you through it. I'm not saying I'm one of them," she added quickly, seeing Andy about to speak, "Just … you're not alone. Don't think you are."

She just stared up at Gail, unsure what to say. She had absolutely no idea how to deal with Gail being _nice _to her.

"If Swarek asks what took so long, just say I was having a meltdown about Chris ..."

"I'm a terrible liar," she whispered. "I won't be able to."

Gail looked at her. "If you keep doing this, you either get better at it … or people are going to know."

She was silent. She didn't know what to say. Like a lot of the time since joining the force she had no idea what she was doing; no instinct to guide her, just terror roiling in her gut.

"OK, you're good to go." Gail smiled at her as she stood up and moved towards the door.

"Hey," she turned back as Gail spoke. Gail started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. "Uh … Look, go easy on the coffe. It'll dehydrate you, make you feel worse. Anyone who says it's good for a hangover is an idiot. And it won't do your skin any favours."

She nodded, thought of the amount of coffee she had already drunk that morning and wondered if it was a mistake. Too late now, and most of it had come back up anyway. She shook her head and headed out to meet Sam. He was silent – he didn't ask what took so long and she didn't volunteer Gail's suggested lie, knowing it would sound false as she stammered and babbled her way through it. She didn't touch her coffee, drinking Gail's flat lemonade instead. She had a fleeting thought that making her coffee was his version of a peace offering and that by not drinking it, she was rejecting his apology, rejecting him. But she had little experience of hangovers, especially ones this bad and she decided that taking anyone's advice on the subject, even Gail's was probably her best course of action. Anyway, she was probably over thinking the coffee thing. Massively.

She didn't look at Sam. Between the pounding headache, rising nausea and the adrenaline spiking in her system from her vision of him dead this morning, she couldn't risk it happening again. She closed her eyes and shivered at the thought.

"Cold?" He asked. She could imagine his expression; the quirk in his eyebrow, the half smile. She didn't look at him, the sight of him dead was too fresh behind her eyelids.

"A little," she replied. She picked up her coffee and pretended to sip it. A conciliatory gesture; in reality, the smell made her gorge rise and she had to work not to dry heave. She kept holding it, though. She was maintaining her connection to him. He was always telling her to trust her gut, but her gut was telling her he was dead. She wondered what he'd say to _that_. She couldn't convince herself today, that he wasn't dead, was in fact alive and sitting next to her driving the car. She couldn't touch him to prove it, but until now she'd been able to look at him and know, to drive out the false memories of her nightmares. Today, though, she had looked at him and seen him dead. So she held the coffee he made for her and pretended that the warmth was from him, used it to tether herself to reality and not her nightmares. It almost, _almost_ worked.

That day, they spoke only about the job, and even then in short, terse sentences with only the words that were absolutely necessary. She had known that he would be angry with her for agreeing to move in with Luke, but she hadn't realised just how angry; hadn't realised that it would destroy the friendship that they had built.

She thought, _I've finally pushed him too far._

She thought, _It's probably for the best._


	4. Interlude

**A/N: I've hit a block on the next chapter, so I wrote this. It was going to be flashbacks for later, but it works fairly well here. I'm nearly finished on the next chapter, now, so shouldn't be too long. Thank you so much for the reviews. To everyone who said that it's getting dark now ... yeah, I must have been thinking about where it was going when I wrote the description for the first chapter. It's going to get worse before it gets better lovelies, you have been warned.**

Gail was waiting for him when he came out of the men's locker room after shift.

"Could I have a word, Swarek?"

"Can it wait? I have somewhere to be." She was about the last person he wanted to talk to. Well, except for Callaghan. He's be quite happy to never speak to Callaghan again. Hell, he'd be quite happy if Callaghan dropped dead.

"No. It's important." The smile she gave him with these words was not pleasant, more of a grimace.

She turned and walked into the interview room without another word, clearly expecting him to follow. He did, but not without trepidation. It was a notorious make-out spot, away from prying eyes. He didn't need the gossip mill working overtime about him and Peck.

"Look, if this is about the other week ..." he began.

She cut him off, "It's not."

"Because I'm not really looking for a repeat performance, or to analyse it ..."

"Do I _look_ like I want to braid each other's hair and cuddle? The other night," she huffed out a breath, "It was what it was, OK? I was trying to piss Chris off and you were trying to make Andy jealous." She rushed on before he could protest. "Look, it's actually Andy I wanted to talk to you about ..."

She didn't know, of course, about the black out. She had no idea that she'd just uttered the words that he'd thrown at Andy to deflect what he had been feeling. She had no idea why he was suddenly so furious.

"We had sex because you offered, and I thought 'why not?' Don't put words in my mouth and don't presume to know me because of it. You having regrets because you're easy? Not my problem."

She looked at him sharply, clearly pissed off. "You know what? You are _clearly _not the right person to be speaking to. But you might just want to think, Swarek. The world doesn't actually revolve around you."

With that, Gail shoved her way past him and out of the door.

The next person she went to was Traci.

"Hey, Trace, can I have a word?"

"Yeah ..." Traci regarded Gail warily.

"It's about Andy. Umm … Listen, don't you think she's been a bit off lately?"

The gaze Traci had on Gail sharpened. "I _think_ that she's a damned fine cop."

"Yeah, sure. I just mean … I think she needs support, to do the job right now"

Traci didn't let Gail finish. She heard what she thought was an attack on her friend and she reacted defensively. "Well, _I _think that she does a better job than three other cops put together, and it pisses you off because she does it without help from her parents!"

Gail gave up. When she went to see Chris at the hospital that night, she told him that she thought Andy was falling apart, but that no one could see it and no one would listen to her. He reached for her, and when she came to him, he gave her a gentle, loving kiss.

"Well, he said. You know what you have to do."

She looked at him in confusion.

"If no one else is going to have her back, you have to. You'll have to keep an eye on her, help her however you can."

"Just _how_ am I supposed to do that? She rides with Swarek, and something's happened between them, so he's being an ass ..."

"You'll have to sort it so that she rides with you."

Gail glared at him in mute irritation.

"I repeat, just _how _am I supposed to do that?"

He grinned. "No idea. But you're amazing. You'll figure something out."

She laughed, "I suppose I'll have to."

The next morning, she made sure she was a good half an hour early for parade. The station was quiet as she made her way to Best's office. She paused before knocking, took a deep breath. Asking for a new partner was risky, she knew that, but Gail had been a part of the force since before she was born, not just the seven months she'd actually been a rookie. And she'd decided. By the time she walked out of this office, she'd be riding with Andy McNally.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hurrah! Writer's block miraculously gone today. Hopefully, this will last for a while and I'll get the next couple of chapters done. I've upped the rating on this to an M, because I realised it probably should be (still not quite there yet, but for violence and bad things and then later for sexy times which will not take place at a fishing cabin). There are some vague sexual references in this chapter, but it should be OK for most sensibilities. Just, you know, ignore that paragraph if it's a problem for you.**

**Yay Gail! In real life I think I would hate her, but as a character she's so much fun! She has so little tact, it's great.**

**My main problem with Luke (other than he's not Sam, obviously) is his lack of empathy, especially paired with Andy who's empathic to a fault, and that's what I was going for here. Do not shoot me for the Luke/Andy. She will eventually come to her senses, I promise, but I'm not finished being horrible to her yet.**

She knew that it was only a matter of time before the cracks started to show.

As she walked home, she decided that she couldn't (wouldn't) let this, whatever this even was, show at work again. There were people relying on her there; her partner, the rest of the team, the public they were trying to serve and protect. She couldn't let them down, couldn't make mistakes which could ultimately cost a life. She also knew that there were any number of cops just waiting for her to go the way of her father, to fall apart, and the rest of the old boys who thought of her, of every woman in the job, as just a tube of lipstick with a badge. She couldn't prove them right. She couldn't.

The decision strengthened her, and as soon as she made it home after that awful, silent shift with Sam, she poured all of the alcohol in her apartment down the drain. She'd take nightmares over hallucinations any day. Luke arrived twenty minutes later, armed with Chinese takeaway. She managed to smile at him, but she used the food as an excuse not to talk, the thought of faking her way through a normal conversation after the day, Hell, the week she'd had too impossible to even contemplate.

It wasn't hard to claim exhaustion and insist on curling up in bed with him as soon as they'd eaten. He was more than happy that she was being affectionate. In the bathroom, when she was brushing her teeth, she made sure that he wasn't looking and took the sleeping tablet she'd bought on the way home from work. It was only over the counter stuff, nothing too strong. She tried not to think about this new step into self-medication.

The pill took effect fast, combining with her now ever-present exhaustion to pull her into a deep sleep within twenty minutes.

All it meant was that when the nightmares came, more vivid than ever, she didn't wake up.

At first, the dream repeated as it had always done; slowing as she walked towards the body bag that the dread in her gut told her contained Sam. This time, though, as it was opened, and his glassy eyes stared at her, his lips moved; _your fault. _Her dream self started screaming, but she still didn't wake. The dream changed; she was back in the Mermaid Lounge. It was just before Sam had left, he was standing with his face right next to hers, his gaze locked on her mouth. He moved to kiss her, and she heard a gunshot, felt the spray of warm blood on her face. The force of the bullet through Sam's skull had knocked him to the ground away from her. _I didn't believe your story, sweetheart_ she vaguely heard Angel saying in the background to her own hysterics as the world became tinged with Sam's blood.

In the morning, she was woken by Luke shaking her shoulder and handing her a cup of coffee. She was groggy, disoriented. She couldn't match up the neutral colours of her apartment with the blood soaked field of her nightmares. She could still feel the drug in her system. Physically she was still half asleep, the other half grasped at the coffee like a lifeline, wanting to stay in reality and not go back to dreaming. She looked at Luke to see that he clearly hadn't had much sleep either.

He spoke, "You were having some serious nightmares last night. You were thrashing about, crying, screaming at some points. I tried to wake you up, but I couldn't."

"I ..." She started, unsure of what to say. What if she was screaming Sam's name? Surely Luke would have mentioned that. "I'm sorry I woke you. I was dreaming about the rec centre, about shooting that man."

"You never told me you had nightmares about that."

She looked at him in disbelief. _Who on earth _wouldn't _have nightmares about that?_

"Yeah. Not for while, but yeah."

"You were a hero that day, everyone thought so."

As if she cared what 'everyone' thought about it.

"I know I did what I had to, Luke. I'm sorry I kept you up."

"I'm not worried about that! I'm worried about you!" She didn't like how worked up he was getting. It wasn't like him, he was always so calm, so in control. She could count on him for that.

"Like I said, I haven't dreamt about him in a while. I probably won't again for a bit. I'm … fine. I'm handling it."

"You want to tell me about it?"

She really didn't. "I … I want to put it behind me, have a good day."

"OK, if you're sure." Was it her imagination, or did she see relief flicker behind his eyes?

She sat on the bed and sipped at her coffee until she felt awake enough to get out of bed and fall into some clothes. She didn't eat anything. The fear which had become a near-constant companion was making her dizzy and nauseous, and there wasn't any food in her kitchen she thought she could stomach. At parade, she looked at Sam before she could stop herself. The fear spiked at the thought she had that she'd see him as a corpse again. It took her a second to realise that she was seeing him as he was; breathing, laughing with Shaw about something. She let out a shaky breath, and the knot in her stomach eased slightly.

She pulled herself together for the briefing, forced herself to concentrate fully. She was surprised when the assignments were called and she found herself riding with … Gail. Sam was with Noelle, she assumed at his request.

_I really did push him too far. _Her heart constricted_. _She was unable to put a name to the wave of emotion she felt at the thought that she had lost him. She refused to examine it. _Don't over think it, right? You've made your choice, he's made his. It's better this way._

The day was best described as fuzzy, pulling in to sharp focus only when a call came through on the radio. At one point, Gail asked her,

"Are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?

"I _really _don't."

She hadn't meant her tone to be so harsh, she knew Gail was just trying to be nice (and was doing surprisingly well at it), but all her energy was going on the job, and on pretending to the people who mattered. There wasn't any room left for polite.

"Fine, good. Because I don't want to hear about it."

After that, Gail had left her to zone out in peace. When they stopped for lunch, she barely managed half of her sandwich. She caught Gail glancing at her, and at the half plate of food left, but Gail didn't say anything. She had the feeling that Gail didn't know what to say.

She was seeing Luke that night, once he'd finished work, at his place. She thought she'd better practice spending more time with him, for when they moved in together, better spend more time in 'their' bed, rather than hers. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, but she'd been popping caffeine pills like they were sweets so her body hadn't quite caught up with her mind. The last couple of days she hadn't been able to stop fidgeting; tapping her foot, or drumming her fingers constantly. She decided to go for a run before going over to Luke's. She meant to go for a gentle jog for about an hour, do maybe five miles. She ended up flicking between a moderate jog and a flat out sprint for two, racking up eleven miles. She knew her legs would ache in the morning, she hadn't run like that in years. She arrived at Luke's out of breath and sweaty, but feeling better than she had in days, elated. He took one look at her, and laughingly packed her off for a shower, saying she would stink up his place. She had it cold, knowing it would help her muscles, and keep her awake. She stepped out of the shower, shivering and threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt she had stashed at Luke's. The smell of the steaks he was cooking hit her and she promptly bolted back into the bathroom to throw up.

She sat on the floor of the bathroom until the world stopped spinning and she finally thought that she might not start vomiting again the second she moved. When she looked in the mirror, she saw that she was clammy and pale under her tan. She splashed some water on her face and pasted on a bright smile. The smell of food still turned her stomach, and she couldn't eat much. She ate about two mouthfuls of steak before she knew she'd be throwing up again if she tried any more. She knew it was a bad sign, she knew that running eleven miles should leave her hungry, famished. Not nauseous. She left the rest of the food. Luke didn't comment, just ate her steak too. She convinced him to watch a movie, so that she wouldn't have to talk to him, wouldn't have to fake her way through a conversation. He stroked her hair as they sat on the couch. It made her want to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. She couldn't think about why.

When she woke at 3.02 am and slid from the bed, heart pounding, hyperventilating, she staggered into the living room and paced like a caged animal. Finally, unable to stand it any more, she grabbed Luke's keys, pulled on some shoes and almost bolted out of the door. Again, she ran. She knew that jogging at three in the morning wasn't a good idea, wasn't safe, but she no longer felt safe anywhere. She was desperate, out of ideas. She just knew she couldn't stay at Luke's apartment, sitting on the couch zoned out watching TV again all night. So she ran. Luke's apartment was in a good neighbourhood, her apartment was in a good neighbourhood. She stuck to well lit streets, didn't go through any parks, or anywhere she knew that drug deals went down. Running burned off the adrenaline coursing through her system. After a couple of miles, the fear that Sam was dead receded a little and her breathing was more even. She took it a lot more gently than she had the previous evening and was back at Luke's in under an hour, barely out of breath and feeling fairly relaxed, almost energised. She took a shower and made Luke pancakes for breakfast. Not that she was able to eat any of it.

"You're up early," Luke said as he walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, yeah, just thought I'd get a start on the day."

She slid a stacked plate across to him.

"Aren't you having any?" He asked.

She'd tried a bit and it had been too rich and turned her stomach. She smiled brightly, "I already ate. I'm sorry, I was really hungry."

She alternated sips of coffee and orange juice as she watched him eat. It was the very picture of domesticity.

She felt better that day. Running had helped. The anxiety receded, she didn't feel nervous. She even managed to eat a little more. When she saw Sam at the station, the fear left her completely and she felt, apart from the nagging exhaustion, almost normal.

It couldn't last.

The next day, after her second middle of the night run, she managed to fall asleep on her couch for a little while. She had a blissfully dreamless catnap, then woke shivering. A hot shower didn't help. She pulled on a thermal vest and a long sleeved t-shirt before she stopped shaking and even then, she could still feel the cold. It had settled into her bones with the exhaustion.

Gail had taken to keeping food in the car constantly; nuts, dried fruit, crisps, crackers – anything and everything. Gail blathered some rubbish about raising her metabolism to lose some weight, but she knew that Gail had noticed how little she was eating and was trying to tempt her. She tried, she really did, but the fatigue was making her nauseous and she was spending all her energy keeping up appearances and now she was making and effort to be nicer to Gail too. She couldn't find it in herself to eat as well.

Two more days into her ten day cycle at work, still cold all the time, still barely able to eat, still having nightmares, still exhausted, still running in the middle of the night, still existing on coffee and caffeine pills, still sneaking glances at Sam whenever they were both at the barn to convince herself that he really was alive, she walked in from ten hours in the squad car with Gail and caught sight of him. She saw him as a walking corpse again, drenched in his own blood. The sight stopped her in her tracks, and she swayed. She might even have fallen if Gail hadn't steadied her.

She walked to the bathroom at a pace just short of a run and threw up the meagre contents of her stomach.

"Here," Gail was behind her with an open bottle. She took a hasty gulp. The taste of sweet, fake strawberries and peaches flooded her mouth. She made a face.

"It's vitamin water. You need it, your body can't just run on caffeine."

Gail sighed and crouched down next to her.

"You're losing it, and it's scaring me. It's my ass on the line if you screw up out there. So could you talk to me, please? Tell me what's going on?"

"I'm fine."

Gail ignored her blatant and ridiculous lie. "It's something with Swarek. You saw him and then tossed your cookies."

"It's nothing. Nothing happened. I'm _fine_."

Gail sighed in exasperation, "I am doing _everything_ I can think of to help you and clearly it is not enough. I can't help if I don't know what the problem is. Hell, just _telling_ someone might help …"

"I _never asked_ for your help! We are _not_ friends! Why do you even _care_?"

"Fine. Fine! I give up! You want to self-destruct? You _go ahead_!"

With that, Gail left. She was alone again.

That night, she was at Luke's again. She felt numb, when he kissed her. Numb, when he entered her. Numb, when he climaxed. Still, she faked it. She was faking every second of every day at the moment. She wanted to cry in frustration with herself, but the tears wouldn't come.

She woke, heart pounding, at 2.57 am and slid from the bed, for her now-customary midnight jaunt. She knew that jogging at 3 am wasn't normal. She knew it wasn't safe, but she justified it to herself again and again – the neighbourhood was good, she stuck to well lit streets, she steered clear of parks, she was a cop – she could take care of herself.

The _pound-pound-pound_ of her feet on the pavement cleared her head. It was the only time she felt sane.

The attack, seemed to her, to come from no where.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Warning - this contains violence, sexual violence and quite a lot of bad language.**

**Thank you for the lovely reviews.**

**Further A/N about this chapter at the end, where it won't be a spoiler.**

She'd been running for three miles and was currently in a pleasant square lined with shops and benches when a body slammed into her right side, knocking her off her feet and onto the hard ground.

As she fell, she instinctively tried to catch herself with her left arm, but it ended up that she just fell with it crumpled beneath her awkwardly. Her assailant pinned her down and pulled at her t-shirt, ripping it. His intentions became blindingly obvious as he pawed at her breasts, so hard that she knew she would have bruises.

She had wondered, as she knew a lot of people did, why some rape victims didn't scream when they were attacked. She knew now that for some of them at least, it was the shock of it, the disbelief. It wasn't that she was frightened, though she supposed she should be. It was that she couldn't believe it was happening. She couldn't believe that this man was trying to violate her like this. That he was trying to rape her.

You always think it won't happen to you.

But it can.

And then he had one hand under her chin, round her throat, and the other was undoing his belt, his fly …

And some part of her started screaming.

"Andrea McNally! You wake the fuck up! He is going to _rape _you if you don't stop him. Do you understand? You wake up _right fucking now_!"

She realised that her right arm was free. Quickly, she reached up and raked her nails down his face. He jerked backwards, loosening his grip on her neck, only to backhand her across the face. She tasted blood. She reared up and smashed her forehead into his nose. She heard the sickening crunch of breaking bone and cartilage. It was incredibly satisfying.

He pulled back, freeing her legs. She scrambled up as he screamed at her, "You fucking _bitch_, you broke my _nose_!"

_Oh, I'm _so _sorry!_ She thought acidly as she brought her hands in a swift chopping motion to his neck, just as Dov had taught both her and Traci, after realising that most of the men they'd be bringing down on the job were going to outweigh them by a good hundred pounds. Her attacker promptly collapsed to the ground unconscious. She dragged him over to the nearest bench, then pulled his belt free from the loops of his jeans and used it to tie his hands behind his back and to the leg of the bench as tightly as possible. She pulled his unconscious form into something as close to the recovery position as she could manage, because as tempting as it was to let the bastard choke on his own blood, she didn't want to get done for manslaughter. She also heroically resisted the urge to give him a couple of swift kicks to the ribs.

She called the station, reported what had happened and asked for someone to come out asap. It was only a couple of minutes later that she heard sirens. First on the scene were Oliver and Dov, for which she was grateful. They were familiar, friendly, but unlikely to ask too many questions. A second squad car arrived a minute or two later with Jensen and Rennes, two officers with whom she had little contact.

Shaw took one look at her and said "Epstein, give her your shirt, then get the blanket from the back."

Dov, _fortunately for us all_, she thought, had a t-shirt on underneath his uniform shirt. As she pulled it on, she realised she was shaking. Shaw approached her as you would a wounded animal, cautiously, slowly.

"McNally," he said gently, holding out a plastic ziploc bag, "Give me your t-shirt."

She looked at him blankly for a second. Finally she told him, "I'm in shock."

He half-smiled at her and continued in the same gentle tone, "Yeah. There's blood on your face."

She reached up and touched her forehead. "Oh, it's not mine. I head butted him. I broke his nose." She added with a touch of pride.

"Good for you. And your mouth? Looks like you have a split lip."

She explored it with her tongue. Now that she was aware of the cut, it suddenly started to throb.

"Yeah, he hit me." She told Shaw.

"OK, come on. We'll take you to the hospital." Shaw started leading her to the squad car, leaving the others to deal with her attacker.

"No," she protested. "No. I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm fine. Let's go to the barn and I'll give my statement. I'm on shift at six ..."

Dov looked at her like she was crazy, "You're not going to be _working_ today."

Shaw shot him a warning look and continued in his softest tone, "We need to take you to the hospital. You need a rape kit."

She stared at him blankly again, then said "N-no. No, I don't. You thought … ? No." Then, more forcefully, "No! I fought him off, before he could do … that."

"Still," Shaw said, "We should go to the hospital, get you checked out. That lip looks like it might need stitches."

"I don't _want_ to go to the hospital, Oliver! I _want _to go to the barn!" Her voice cracked on the last word. She couldn't explain _why_ she didn't want to go to the hospital. It was more that she didn't want to do anything out of the ordinary today. She wanted to appear normal, to feel normal, to be normal. She didn't want to people at the station to think of her as the crazy rookie who nearly got herself raped. She didn't want to _be_ the crazy rookie who nearly got herself raped.

Shaw and Epstein exchanged a glance. It was Dov who spoke, "OK, then."

In the car, Oliver asked her,

"Why were you jogging at three in the morning?"

Her voice was slow in coming, rough when it arrived.

"I couldn't sleep, and I was on shift at six anyway, so I thought, 'why not?'"

She wondered if the shock she was in was giving her lies an air of credibility. Neither of them said anything, though they exchanged glances again. By the time they arrived at the station, the shaking had stopped, to be replaced by a splitting headache and faint nausea. They sat her down in Jerry's office.

Shaw turned to Dov, "Epstein, go get Detective Barber, tell him we're here. Then make McNally a cup of tea, lots of milk and sugar." To her, he added "I'll be right back."

Shaw reappeared a couple of minutes later with a cloth and some warm water and proceeded to gently wash the blood from her face, first checking with her that it was all right for him to touch her. It didn't bother her. Shaw was probably the least threatening person she knew. She could barely imagine him hurting a perp, let alone _her_. Maybe, when this blank, white feeling wore off, she'd be afraid of all men. At the moment, she didn't feel much of anything.

Dov reappeared with Jerry on his heels. Dov put the tea in front of her and Shaw ordered her to drink it.

"It'll help with the shock."

Shaw packed Dov off to do the paperwork, but stayed with her as she told Jerry what had happened and answered his questions. She was glad of Shaw's presence. Jerry had never been her biggest fan, though she wasn't sure why. Jerry was professional, not without empathy, but not overly sympathetic. It was oddly comforting. She thought she might have fallen apart if he'd been uncharacteristically sweet to her.

It was strange, being on this end of the questioning. She found that even though the assault had happened barely an hour ago, her memory was confused and foggy. She remembered in vivid detail the smell of him – musk and stale sweat, the feel of the grass on her neck and the texture of his shirt, but couldn't say the colour of his eyes or his age. She promised herself that she'd never bitch about a vague witness again. But Jerry was good at his job and he teased the details from her without upsetting her too much or shutting her down. Once he was finished, he told her to stay put while he sorted out the paperwork, then someone would take her home, and he left, taking Shaw with him.

By then, the station was filling up as shift change got under way. Sam had decided to come in early. He wanted to get a jump start on some paperwork. He was just walking out of the locker room having changed into his uniform, when he heard Jerry call his name.

"Sammy!" Jerry jerked his head to the left and Sam willingly followed. Once they were out of most people's earshot, Jerry started, "Listen, something happened last night." He took a deep breath, watching Sam intently. "One of the rookies was attacked."

"Who was it? Are they all right?"

"She's … shaken up. It was McNally."

Sam shook his head, "McNally wasn't on shift last night."

"No, she says she was out jogging, at three am mind you, and this guy jumped her. Tried to rape her."

"Where is she?" Sam's voice was flat, devoid of inflection or emotion.

Jerry tried to repair the situation, "She's OK, she fought him off."

"I said, where is she?"

Jerry looked at him, and gave up. If he didn't tell Sam where she was, he'd probably tear the station apart looking for her.

"In my office."

Sam turned and walked away without another word. He strode into Jerry's office, grabbed the forlorn figure sitting in the chair by both arms and hauled her to her feet.

"What the _hell_ were you doing out on your own at three in the morning?" he shouted at her.

She made a small sound of pain and he jerked his hands away as if he'd been scalded. She backed away from him, cradling her left arm, face creased in pain.

"Son of a _bitch_!" she exclaimed, sounding more like herself than she had in a week.

Sam just looked at her in horror as Shaw, who'd been hot on Sam and Jerry's heels went over to her, saying

"Are you OK?" He said, looking at Sam disapprovingly.

"Not _Sam. _My _arm_. Sam couldn't have done this. _God_, it _hurts_!"

She was hissing her breaths out through her teeth, clearly trying not to whimper in pain.

Jerry piped up, "You said you fell on your arm, when he jumped you."

She looked at him in confusion, then said "Yeah … yeah"

"Did it hurt?"

She thought about it for a second. "No, not really. Not 'til now."

The three men exchanged glances.

Finally, Sam said "Could be a fracture. Happened to me once paying football. Fractured my collarbone. Didn't even notice at the time, next day it was agony. I'll take her to the hospital."

Jerry and Oliver exchanged a look.

"I don't think ..." Oliver started.

"I am taking her to the hospital." Sam said, flatly.

She spoke up, "It's OK." She knew his tone meant that there was no changing his mind, "I suppose I have to go and get this checked out."

As they left, Oliver grabbed Sam, "They took the guy to St. Thomas. Take her somewhere else" he said quietly, so she wouldn't hear.

"He had to go to the hospital?"

Oliver's mouth quirked up in a smile, "She broke his nose and knocked him out. He was at least twice her size, too. She's a fighter, that one."

_That's my girl_, Sam thought. He nodded to Oliver, who added "And Sam? Don't do anything stupid."

**A/N 2: To anyone who wanted Sam to rescue her - I don't do damsels in distress. I fully expect my heroines to be able to do their own arse kicking. Also, he's her partner, and yes he has her back, but it's 3 am. Unless you want him stalking her, he was asleep.**

**The delayed pain fracture comes from something that happened to someone I knew at school. She broke her arm break dancing, but didn't notice until it started hurting the next day. Whether it could happen the way I described it, I have no idea. I must plead artistic licence.**

**And as to why the man didn't rape Andy, I could say I felt bad for her by this point, but honestly I was going to have it happen but then I ran it through and I couldn't come up with a scenario in which Sam wouldn't beat the guy who did it to death and I didn't want Sam in prison for murder. So attempted rape it was, and no police brutality is still going to be tricky.**

**Lastly, "quirk" is not a verb. But frankly, it should be. For use describing motions one makes with eyebrows and mouths.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: My computer completely died on me Saturday, so it's a good thing I've been writing the first draft of this story long hand anyway and didn't lose anything. I have borrowed one from work until mine is fixed (YAY!). To try to get a feel for Luke, because I don't think I've been getting him right, I put myself through clips of all the Andy/Luke scenes on YouTube. Feel my pain. Even that didn't really help, I just find him a bit of a non-entity.**

**Also, I have discovered this .com/watch?v=U58_aMDz8uA which I think is the best Andy/Sam video I've seen, so I thought I'd plug it.**

They were mostly silent in the car. She could feel Sam brooding, angry at himself for hurting her (however unwittingly), at her for getting hurt, at the man who had attacked her. She didn't look at him. She was afraid of what she'd see.

At one point, he asked, "Whose shirt is that?"

She glanced down at herself, she'd forgotten what she was wearing. "Dov's. He and Oliver were first on the scene. Oliver made him give it to me."

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he inferred that there was a reason she couldn't wear her own shirt. He didn't ask her any other questions during the drive after that.

They had just arrived at Memorial and were checking in, only to be informed that there was a two hour wait, when a voice called,

"Sam!" It was Monica, who took one look at her and said, "Jesus. Tough night, huh?" Then to the woman behind the desk, "I'll take them."

They followed Monica to an examination room, while Sam told Monica what had happened and what they thought about her arm.

"Could be a fracture." Monica said, "We'll get an x-ray to be sure. Your lip could use a couple of stitches too."

She shrank from Monica's close scrutiny. Monica stitched her lip while they waited for x-ray to be free. During that time, Sam went from sitting calmly in a chair, to standing, to pacing agitatedly.

"Where'd it happen?" he asked, suddenly. She told him.

"That's nowhere near your apartment."

She shook her head, "I was at Luke's."

"You were at Luke's," he repeated flatly, then "and you decided to take a midnight stroll, all on your own. Why, exactly, did you do that?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"You can't sleep, you make some hot milk, you read a book. You don't go for a run in the _middle of the night!_"

She didn't answer him, didn't look at him. She started biting her lower lip, and rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

"What the hell were you thinking? You've done some stupid things, McNally, but this takes the cake. You could have gotten yourself _killed_!"

"Sam!" Monica interrupted him, standing. "A word?"

He glared at her.

"I wasn't asking, Sam."

Monica took him outside the exam room and shut the door.

"What?" he demanded.

"Sam ..." she sighed and brought and ran a hand through her hair in an almost resigned gesture. "I know she scared you. I know you're mad at her for putting herself in danger, but could you just _look_ at that girl for a minute?"

He did. "Yeah."

Monica sighed again. "OK, I know you're a man, but as a cop you should really have better observational skills. Why would you go running in the middle of the night, when you know it's stupid and not safe? Either, because you _want _to get hurt, or because you're desperate. And you're desperate, because you haven't been able to sleep for ... well looking at her, I'm guessing at least two weeks. Long enough to stop being able to eat properly. She's lost a few pounds since I last saw her, and that girl really didn't have any weight to lose."

Monica looked at Sam and laid a hand on his arm. His face was a mask of horror.

"Don't beat yourself up about it. People who are self-destructing like this ... it's the people they're closest to who they don't want to notice, who they put on the biggest act for. Just take it easy on her, OK? She's clearly very fragile right now. You push her, she's not going to push back, she's not going to bend, she's going to _break_."

Sam was still staring at the young woman in the hospital room in horror, but Monica could see the beginnings of anger on his face again, now complicated by guilt.

"Go walk it off, Sam. Don't come back until you can be civil. She needs _support_."

Sam left and Monica took her up to x-ray. Her arm was indeed fractured. As Monica made preparations for the cast back in the exam room, she asked,

"Where did Sam go?"

"I told him to take a walk until he calmed down. I didn't think you needed the stress." Monica paused and started laying the cast on her arm. "I put myself through med school, you know. Student loans only went so far, so I worked nights at a morgue full time. By finals in my second year, I was a mess. I was working all night, I had classes all day, the library for studying. My body clock was completely screwed up, and I was living on energy drinks and caffeine pills, so that I could function, but they made me so hyped up that I couldn't eat or sleep, even when I had the chance. If I let myself think about it, I felt like I was drowning. So I didn't let myself think about it. I told my parents, my friends, my boyfriend that everything was fine. Sometimes I even managed to make myself believe it.

"One day, it was something like five in the morning, I'd just come off shift at the morgue ... I was sitting in this little diner drinking coffee and waiting for the library to open so I could study before class. I had my notes in front of me, I was trying to read them, but the words were just _swimming_. I think I'd been staring at the same page for about half an hour, and hadn't taken in a word, when the waitress put a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me. I said, 'I didn't order this' and she smiled at me, and said, 'No, hon, but you looked like you could use it'. I just burst into tears and started babbling about how overwhelming everything was. It was so embarrassing, but she just sat down and let me talk. I still see her every couple of weeks. She's great."

Monica sighed, "What I'm trying to say ... sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger, someone with no preconceptions, no expectations of you, than your _best friend._"

Monica looked at her, she looked back.

"Why do you care?"

"Well, a certain level of empathy comes with the job." Monica shrugged, "And Sam cares about you, which tells me you're worth caring about."

She stared at Monica, who was looking at her with what felt like infinite compassion.

Eventually she blurted, "I have nightmares."

She felt a weight lift from her at finally telling someone.

Monica asked, "Do you want to tell me about them?"

She blanched, bit her lip and shook her head.

"That's OK," Monica took the refusal in her stride, "What about the physical symptoms when you wake up, can you tell me about those?" Off her blank look, Monica added "What's your heart rate like, and your breathing?"

"My breathing ... sometimes it's slow, sometimes I hyperventilate. My heart's always pounding. Slow, but so hard it hurts." She paused. "Sometimes I throw up."

Monica's face was carefully blank. She seemed utterly unfazed, "They must be pretty nasty. Listen, it sounds like you're having panic attacks in your sleep. Your body's producing a load of adrenaline, gearing you up for fight or flight, but you're asleep, there's nowhere for it to go, so you have a nightmare and end up feeling like ... crap." Monica looked at her and continued very, very gently, "It means that there's something you're not dealing with consciously that your subconscious is trying to handle. Now, I can give you some propanolol. It's what's called a beta blocker, what it does is steady your heart rate, so you physically _can't_ have a panic attack. Might help you get a good night's sleep."

"But it won't do anything about whatever the issue is that's causing them."

Monica shook her head, "No. It won't."

Monica smiled a little and said, "I think you're going to have to talk to someone about them, about whatever else you're feeling. I know it seems like the hardest thing in the world, but it will help." With that, Monica paused, then started speaking again slowly, "Are you sure you don't need a rape kit? We're not supposed to do them off the books, but I think I could swing it, if maybe you weren't up front about how far things went, you could always tell them later ..."

"Honestly, no. It didn't get that far."

Monica nodded, "OK, in that case we're done. Cast needs to stay on for six weeks. You'll need to come back to have it off. I'll go see if I can find Sam and get you some painkillers ..."

Suddenly, Luke was in the doorway, "Swarek's gone. He called me to take you home."

She wished Sam hadn't done that. She wasn't sure she could handle Luke right now; handle anyone else's reaction.

"I'll be right back," Monica said tactfully.

Instantly, Luke was by her side, engulfing her in an embrace. She flinched and stiffened, and instantly felt guilty. She knew that Luke would never, could never hurt her, but his scent, his nearness, his maleness all panicked her in that instant.

He drew back, apologising.

"I should have thought." The stricken look on his face only served to compound her guilt. She forced herself to reach for his hand.

Monica returned with the pills and laid a hand on her shoulder, "You need _anything_, you give me a call."

She felt Luke bristle beside her at the implication that he wasn't enough. Monica made her take a pill for the pain and discharged her.

"Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you have someone at the station call me? "

It honestly hadn't occurred to her. Even if it had, she would have felt guilty for interrupting his sleep before work, but she knew she couldn't tell him that.

"It feels like everything's happened so fast ... I didn't think to call you. I'm OK. Everything's OK. There's nothing you could have done."

After that, the silence in the car was uncomfortable. She leaned against the window and closed her eyes, hoping he'd think she had fallen asleep.

She knew that he had no idea what to say.

He stopped the car outside her apartment, and huffed out a breath "How long have you been going out while I'm asleep?"

She thought about lying, but she wasn't sure if he'd believe her, or if it was a good idea. This man was her lover, her boyfriend, her partner. This was the man she was supposed to share her life with. Eventually, she responded, "Not long. A few days."

"A few _days_?" He was shocked. "_Why_?"

She looked at him, bit her lip. She had no idea how to answer his question, what answer would bring them closer together, what he wanted her to say. She was overly aware that she couldn't mention the nightmares about Sam, that the wedge it would drive between her and Luke would be insurmountable. She was also pretty sure that he wouldn't, couldn't, comprehend her_ desperate_ need to keep up appearances, to seem if not perfect, then at least _normal_ to the world at large, which thanks to her attack now seemed irrevocably impossible. She had no idea how to boil down the goings on in her head from the last couple of weeks in to something _she_ could understand, let alone anyone else. Let alone Luke.

And she couldn't deal with his hurt feelings about her attack, she couldn't even work out what _she_ felt about it, getting her head around his was impossible.

In the end, she gave him a non-answer, "I couldn't sleep, and it seemed like a good idea," she sighed. "Look, could we talk about this later? I can't deal with it right now."

He stared at her, nodded, "I have to get back to the station. Get some sleep. I'll see you later tonight"

She forced herself to nod and left him in the car.


	8. Interlude, deux

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews. This was supposed to be very short, just to explain and set up a couple of things, but it poured out and is about the same length as the other chapters.**

Sam Swarek didn't think he'd ever been so angry in his life, and the worst part was he couldn't work out who to be angry with.

He thought of the wreck his sister had been after she'd been raped; how she'd barely left their apartment for weeks, then refused to go anywhere on her own for years. Even to the convenience store across the street. He thought about how she hadn't laughed, hadn't smiled for months, even with him constantly cracking jokes. Admittedly, they were terrible jokes, but surely every big sister should at least _smile_ at her little brother making a fool of himself. He thought about how she'd favoured huge, baggy sweatshirts to hide herself away, even in the height of Summer, even with their mother _pleading_ with her to wear a sun dress or just jeans and a tank top. He thought about how she hadn't gone on a date until she was nearly eighteen, and how after she'd been on one, she'd lock herself in her room and cry because the guy had tried to hold her hand, or put his arm round her shoulders and she'd freaked out. Even when it was a boy she had really liked.

He thought about any of those things happening to Andy McNally, and he'd swear that he could feel his blood boiling.

His sister had been taking a short cut home from school through the local park, which she wasn't supposed to do in the Winter, when it was dark, and some asshole had grabbed her – wrong place, wrong time. McNally had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, too, but she was an adult who knew how dangerous it was to do what she had been doing, how likely to end in disaster and had done it anyway. Not a child, engaging in some mild rebellion against her parents which she hadn't thought would do any harm.

He was so mad at McNally that he couldn't think straight. He was mad at her for wilfully putting herself in harm's way _for no good reason_. He was mad at her for the fear he'd felt on hearing she'd been attacked. He was mad at her for the way his heart had constricted when he'd seen that she'd been hurt. He was mad at her for not coming to him with whatever the problem was, he was mad at her for telling him she was moving in with Callaghan and pissing him off so much he didn't want to talk to her (but couldn't stop staring), he was mad at her for requesting Peck as a partner so he couldn't see the signs that she was coming apart at the seams.

He was mad at her for choosing Callaghan over him.

But he couldn't take it out on her. Monica had taken that option away from him, by pointing out that McNally was the victim ... and in no fit state to defend herself.

After his conversation with Monica, which had left him wanting to punch a hole in the wall, he found another target for his anger. He couldn't be around McNally, not with this rage bubbling through him. He would only hurt her more. But someone needed to drive her home. Callaghan.

Sam called Callaghan at the station.

Sam was furious with Callaghan for not noticing that she was sneaking out in the middle of the night, for not seeing that something was wrong. He was angry with Callaghan for having Andy in his bed, in his life, in the first place. For that, Sam Swarek _hated_ Luke Callaghan.

But right now, Sam needed him. Calm, cold, calculating Luke was exactly what McNally needed, a balm on her wounds, not his fiery temper burning her more. Not when he couldn't get it under control.

Luke answered the phone, "Callaghan."

"It's Swarek. I've got your girlfriend with me down at Memorial."

"Yeah, Jerry told me."

"Jerry told you, and you're still at the station? Why aren't you _here_?"

"I have work to do, and if she needed me, she'd call."

It worried Sam, how little this man understood Andy. He didn't point out that Andy never asked for help, not when the problem was personal; that you had to push and pummel and bully out of her an explanation of what was going on in that head of hers. And even then, you had to guess half of it yourself. He also didn't point out that Callaghan shouldn't have to be _asked_, he should just be _there._ And he wasn't. Callaghan would just get defensive and it wouldn't get him any closer to helping McNally.

"She's a mess, as you'd expect. I don't think she could tell you what day of the week it was, let alone to call someone for her. She needs you. Get your ass down here, now."

Sam hung up before Callaghan could respond. He'd come.

Above all else, he hated Callaghan at that moment, because he was the one McNally needed.

Sam met Callaghan at the door to the hospital, and as greeting and farewell offered only the number of the room she was in. He was pretty sure that would convey his disapproval of Callaghan's disregard for his girlfriend. In the squad car on the way back to the barn, his fury crested again. He thought of the guy who'd attacked his McNally, he thought of the guy who'd attacked his sister, and he wanted to rip them to shreds. When he arrived at the station, he strode purposefully towards the cells. Suddenly, Shaw was blocking his path.

"Turn around Sam."

"I'm going to see him."

Oliver shook his head, "Can't let you do that. Best's orders. No one but Williams and I are allowed in to see the prisoners."

Sam tried glaring him down, but Shaw wasn't easily intimidated. Shaw also knew how Sam's temper worked. He'd blow up, rant and rage, punch or kick something and then he'd calm down and come to regret all the things that he'd said and done in the heat of the moment, especially if one of those things was punching and kicking a suspect and brought an end to his career.

"Jerry's linked the guy's description to two other unsolved rapes. Jerry's getting in the previous victims to ID him and we're waiting on DNA results. He isn't going anywhere, Sam, not for a long time."

Sam clenched his jaw and turned away from Oliver. He caught sight of Gail, coming in from her car.

"Peck!" He barked, "A word!"

It wasn't a request. He stormed into the interview room and rounded on her the second she closed the door.

"So, what did you think, that McNally falling apart would make you look better in comparison, or are you just so unobservant you didn't notice the _trouble_ your partner was in?"

If Sam had been in any state to notice other people's reactions, he would have seen that Gail looked distinctly like she wanted to hit him and was only barely restraining herself.

_I will not hit a superior asshole. I will not his a superior asshole_.

"Are you kidding me? _Are you kidding me?_ Do you not recall a conversation we had in here where I _tried_ to tell you something was wrong and you were a jackass? Why do you think I requested for her to be partnered with me? I am the _only one_ who noticed, and I am the _only one_ who did anything to help, so screw you!"

Sam saw, just before Gail turned on her heel and left that she was on the verge of tears. He knew what she was feeling; guilt for not being able to help McNally, for failing her, for not being enough. Looking at Gail's tears, Sam's guilt instantly redoubled and he tried to go after her.

"Wait -!"

But she was out of the door and gone. He followed her, wanting to apologise, wanting to tell her that it wasn't her fault. It was his, and Callaghan's for not noticing. It was the guy in the cell's for being a perverted nut job. It was McNally's mother's fault for abandoning her and McNally's father's fault for becoming an alcoholic. And it was McNally's fault for not asking for help. He was brought up short by Best's voice calling across the busy room,

"Peck! Swarek! My office!"

Gail didn't look at him, and he could see from the tense set of her shoulders that she knew this was about McNally. In Best's office, Gail sat primly, back straight and hands folded in her lap. Sam leaned casually against a filing cabinet.

"I've spoken to McNally, given her tomorrow off, but I wanted to get a feel for how she's been before going any further. You two have worked most closely with her ..." Best tailed off and Sam recognised the common interrogation technique; stay silent for long enough and the perp will fill the silence.

Gail lasted forty-seven seconds, which was pretty impressive.

"She ..." Gail stopped, and Sam could see the conflicting instincts in her head; _have your partner's back_ versus _respect your commanding officers_ and the little voices saying _If I tell them, they could help. If I don't tell them, she could get herself hurt, or let someone else get hurt._

"She's been ..." Gail paused, obviously trying to find the right words. "Most of the time, she's been kind of checked out. But every time a call comes through, she snaps in to focus. On the job, she's like she normally is, exemplary. Being a good cop, it's clearly all she's ever wanted and she'll do anything to make sure she does her best. Honestly ..." Gail took a breath, looked down and finally back up at Best, "I think being a cop is all that's holding her together."

Best asked, "Do you know what it is that's bothering her?"

Gail shook her head, "She won't talk about it. I tried, a number of times, but she'd barely admit there was a problem, let alone what it was."

"OK. Go get back to work."

Once Gail had left, Best turned back to Sam.

Sam, like Gail, was honest, "I didn't notice, and I should have done. I should have called her on it. Look, she's got a fractured arm. She's going to have to be on desk for a few weeks anyway. Should be enough time to get herself sorted out. We can keep an eye on her."

"She'll have every support. She's a good cop. I don't want to lose her."

_None of us do_.

HeH


	9. Chapter 7

**A/N: Sorry for the slow update - writer's block (again). This was supposed to be an Andy/Traci chapter, but I couldn't write it, and then I realised that was because I needed a (short) Andy/Sam interaction first. Thank you for reviewing, favouriting and alerting - it means the world to me. Comments and criticisms are very welcome.**

**Also, I've been listening to Burning Beacon and My Heart is a Warning a lot, and I mean A LOT, to write this fic, but I'm heading towards happy Andy (slowly. Don't count on it for a while), so if anyone could recommend some Andy/Traci music and some happy Andy music, it would be much appreciated. I have never thought that music helps me with writing/inspiration, but apparently it does.**

Despite never wanting to sleep again, once Luke had dropped her off the painkillers kicked in and dragged her under while she was still sitting on her sofa. She woke in a cold sweat, shivering and gasping for breath from dreams of Angel shooting Sam then clawing at her clothes. She stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Staring at her reflection, she barely recognised herself. She'd lost weight, her face had thinned and her skin didn't have it's customary healthy glow. Her hair, usually one of her best features lay lank and limp against her shoulders. There were heavy circles beneath her eyes and her eyes themselves didn't have any spark to them, any life.

_This has to stop._

It was barely more than a breath in her mind. She sounded unsure even to herself. She looked her reflection in the eye and attempted to say firmly, "This has to stop."

It still came out as a whisper.

She was distracted by a knock on the front door. It was Sam, holding bags from her favourite sandwich place. For almost a minute he just stood, staring at her. Staring at the bruises on her face, at the cast on her arm, at Dov's shirt which she was still wearing. Then he lifted the bags and said,

"I had a feeling you wouldn't eat if someone didn't bring you something. Mind if I come in?"

She shook her head and stood back from the door.

"Were you asleep? I didn't want to wake you." He asked as he put the sandwich bags down on her table and started searching through her cupboards for plates. She shook her head and sat, content to watch him look, too tired to offer up where the plates were, or to face his questions when he found them. No such luck.

"How're you feeling?"

Instinct kicked in. Her knee-jerk response to any question about how she was exited her mouth before she could think about it,

"I'm -" _fine._

Sam had found the plates and was sitting down when he cut her off. He shook his head,

"Don't say you're fine. You're not fine."

He handed her a sandwich. It was Italian chicken, one of her favourites. It was comfort food, but hopefully not too rich for her stomach. Sam, of course, had a massive monstrosity with meatballs and three kinds of cheese and God only knew what else.

She stared at him, alive and well and _right there in front of her_ and felt better than she had in days. She thought about after her mother had left, how her father had been completely incapable of looking after himself, let alone himself and a kid. She thought of how the laundry hadn't been done for weeks and eventually some mean girl at school had commented that she stank, and she'd gone home that afternoon, to piles of laundry and mountains of dirty plates and a layer of grease (eggs and bacon was about all her dad could cook) and dust over everything. And she'd cried. She'd looked in the fridge and in the cupboards for something to eat, but all she had found was half an onion, some gone off milk and a tin of sardines. Alarm bells had gone off in the back of her mind, and not knowing much about the real world at thirteen, she had panicked that if anyone realised that anything was wrong at home they'd take her away from her father. So that evening, before her father got home from work, she'd cleaned. She'd figured out how to work the washing machine, done the dishes, bullied her father into giving her money for groceries, and learnt to cook anything and everything with instructions on the packet. In short, she'd learnt to take care of her father the way that he should have been taking care of her.

But the lingering terror of other people finding out things were going wrong still held her. She struggled to identify the consequences, but was filled with the belief that _bad things would happen_ if anyone knew that she wasn't OK. And thanks to some pervert attacking her, now everyone knew she wasn't OK.

She avoided Sam's steady gaze and tried to decide what to tell him. How was she?

Eventually, she murmured, almost too quietly for him to hear,

"I don't know how I feel yet. It's like I'm full of static."

"That's OK. It's OK not to know what you're feeling. It's OK to feel numb. However you feel after this, _that's OK_."

Sam's eyes were kind, gone was the fury of this morning.

"Listen ..." he started, his eyes still burning in to her, "I'm sorry for yelling at you this morning, I wasn't thinking. I just … I don't want to see you get hurt, and the thought of what could have happened …" he shook his head, let out a shaky breath, "I don't want to see you hurt."

Then he looked away from her, stopped trying to meet her gaze, "I _can't_ see you hurt."

She felt bad for him. She knew what he'd been imagining and knew how he felt – the way she had for the last couple of weeks every time she had woken from another nightmare. She started to try to explain,

"I get why you're mad at me. Everyone's mad at me, _I'm_ mad at me. It was stupid, what I was doing, I can see that now, but I – I just _didn't know what else to do_."

"Didn't know what to do about what?" he was watching her with unveiled concern now. He reached out and took her hand, "Andy, you know you could tell me anything, right?"

She stared at their conjoined hands and suddenly the world shifted. It was as if the world were a jigsaw puzzle, and when Sam touched her, the pieces all fit together. The thing was, until that moment, she hadn't even known there were pieces missing. Hot on the heels of the feeling of completion, the feeling that everything was right with the world, came wave after wave of panic. If she cared about Sam, she'd lose him. If she didn't care about Sam, she couldn't lose him. She jerked her hand away, and for a split second she saw the pain at her rejection wash over his face before he replaced it with a blank expression.

She shook her head, "I know, but … it's nothing you can help with. And … and I'll be fine. I will."

He looked at her, face still blank and closed, and said "I'd better get back. You change your mind, or you need anything else, you call me."

He left before she could respond. She put her head in her hands and let out a shuddering breath.

At least he hadn't smiled. She didn't know if she could have taken him being flippant today.


	10. Chapter 8

**A/N: SO sorry for the slow update. Work got crazy, and I had real problems writing this. I seem to find stream of consciousness quite easy, but writing dialogue is like pulling teeth for me. As always, thank you so much for your reviews. Having said that this story isn't where season 2 will go (and it most definitely isn't), this or something like it is the conversation that I think will precipitate Andy's break up with Luke.**

**Also, I was rewatching the scene where Andy puts Sam on ice (silly girl) and it turns out Missy Peregrym is left handed. As a lefty myself, I'm usually over-aware when actors are so it's weird that I didn't notice. I realise that I broke Andy's left arm a couple of chapters ago and have repeatedly referred to it as her left arm, BUT that was because I thought she was right handed and I wanted the poor girl to be able to write and so on with less difficulty then if her dominant arm were broken, so could we please pretend that she broke her right arm? OK? Thanks.**

She sat unmoving for a long time after Sam left. Eventually, she stood and started to clean up, do the dishes. No matter what she did, she'd find herself staring into space and discover that five, ten, fifteen minutes has passed which she had no memory of, where no thoughts had passed through her mind. It was frightening.

_I'm still in shock_, she realised and tried to reassure herself, _It'll be OK. I'll be OK._

She was blasted out of a daze by someone leaning on the doorbell. She blinked, and discovered that she'd been halfway through cleaning the kitchen counter; about ten minutes ago.

She opened the front door to find Traci standing on the doorstep, grocery bag in hand. The second Traci saw her, she dropped the bag and wrapped Andy in a hug. Andy just stood there, unsure entirely why Traci was hugging her, or what she was supposed to feel about it. The sense of dissociation she felt from everything around her was confusing and worrying.

"Jesus, Andy, I've been worried! Are you OK? Don't answer that, of course you're not OK."

Traci retrieved the bag of groceries and hustled past her into the kitchen. She pulled out some milk and hot chocolate that she'd bought and then unearthed a saucepan from one of the cupboards. Then Traci turned, an unreadable expression on her face – something between anxiety and compassion. She took a deep breath,

"Andy," Traci was shaking her head, "What the Hell is going on?" Despite her harsh words, Traci's tone was soft, bewildered.

"Trace, I … I made a mistake. It was stupid, I'm OK."

"Stop lying Andy, 'cos you really, really _suck_ at it. Sit down. You are going to drink some hot chocolate and you are going to _talk_. Neither of us is going anywhere until you tell me what's been going on. We will stay here all night if we have to."

Traci raised the wooden spoon she was about to use to stir the hot chocolate and waved it threateningly. The image was so incongruous, so ridiculous that Andy let out a burst of laughter. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, as she realised that she couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. She had to sort this out. She had to. She sat down and let out a deep sigh,

"Oh, Trace. I don't know where to start. Everything's such a mess, _I'm_ such a mess and I have no idea how to fix it."

"Try the beginning. How did all of this start?"

"After the big drug bust, when Sam and I posed as Gabe and Edie. I thought they'd shot him, Trace, I really did. I thought he was dead, and I have _never_ been so scared in my entire life ..." Andy found that once she started talking, she couldn't stop. She told Traci everything; the nightmares, the constant fear, how she started hallucinating and stopped eating, why she was out running at ungodly o'clock, how trapped she felt by Luke and how she'd been holding everyone at arm's length.

" … and I couldn't let anyone see how bad things were, because then they might think that I couldn't do the job, that I was just some stupid Barbie, and they'd be _right ..._"

"Andy, Andy!" Traci had come and crouched in front of her, "_Nobody_ is ever going to think that you can't do the job. You are an incredible cop, all the TOs thought so, everyone thinks so. But you can not have all of this going on in your head and not talk to anyone about it. Nobody can."

Andy let out a noise that was half laugh, half strangled sob.

"Drink your hot chocolate," Traci ordered.

Andy complied, feeling a little like Leo, which reminded her,

"Where is Leo? Don't you have to get back to him?"

"He is with Dex, who I called and told I would be spending the evening with you."

"But he likes you being home for dinner, Leo likes you being home for dinner, _you_ like being home for dinner … Won't he be mad?"

"Andy, any man who would get mad at me for wanting to be with my friend, who was attacked less than twenty-four hours ago, isn't a man worth going home to." Traci fixed Andy with a piercing gaze, "Which brings us to homicide Luke … Do you want to move in with him?"

"Of course I do."

"Why?"

"Because … Because … Because it's the next step."

"Uh huh." Traci said flatly. "I notice you didn't say, 'Because I love him.'"

"I … I … Of course I love him."

"Do you? Or do you just think you should? 'Cos I think you think you _should_ love him. I think you think he's a great guy. I think that on paper he's perfect for you; he's good looking, he's charming, he's smart, he's driven, he's got a good career, he's the right age for you, he's seems reliable. But you don't love him, do you?"

Slowly, Andy shook her head, "I _want _to. He's so safe." She couldn't look at Traci, "And you were saying how great he was, and how I always pick the wrong guys – so I didn't this time, I _didn't_."

"He's not perfect, Andy. And he's not the right guy for you. I'm sorry if I pushed you towards him, OK? I'm sorry. I was wrong, Andy. He is so _not _perfect."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he's not here. And he should be, without even having to be asked, he should be here with you, because you need him. And he's not."

"But he is so perfect, there's nothing wrong with him, everything's wrong with _me ..._"

"And you think that if Luke wants you, if Luke loves you, suddenly everything will just be better, it'll all be fixed? Because it won't. You think that if you move in with him, get a dog, get married, have the white picket fence and the 2.4 children, you'll be happy? If you're not happy with him now, then moving in with him isn't going to _make_ you happy and nor is all the rest of the domestic stuff."

"But what about you and Dex? He wasn't perfect before, he's screwed up a lot, but he's really making an effort, and you're happy, right?"

"Yeah … Yeah … I kissed Jerry."

"You _what_? When?" Andy was almost shocked back to herself; she felt as though she and Traci were just sitting here gossiping as they had so many times before. And this was good gossip.

"This morning. He grabbed me when I got in so that he could tell me what had happened to you – so that I wouldn't hear on the grapevine or anything, and I was really worried about you, really scared, and he was just so sweet, and he hugged me, and he was smelling my hair, and then I kissed him."

Traci's ramble came to a halt, and she stared at Andy, guilt written all over her face, begging for understanding. Andy chose her words carefully,

"Trace … does Dex make you happy? I hear you talk about how happy he is and how happy Leo is, but you're always an afterthought, and you shouldn't be."

Traci bit her lip, looking close to tears, "Leo's loves us being together. He loves us being a family. And Dex is spending so much time with him, which he wouldn't if I broke up with him. Leo would hate it if we split up, he'd hate me."

"Traci! Leo could never hate you, he adores you. And he'll be happy if you're happy, and Dex clearly isn't who you want."

Andy wasn't Jerry's biggest fan, but she certainly didn't think Dex deserved Traci. Any man who treated his kid like a toy he could play with when he felt like it and ignore when he didn't wasn't worthy of Traci or Leo. Especially when it might only be a matter of time before he got bored of playing house and wanted to go find himself another yoga instructor.

"Leo may be mad with you for a bit, but if you stay with Dex to make him happy, when he gets older Leo will be _really_ mad at you. And so will I."

Traci managed to crack a smile at that.

"You're right."

Andy let out a breath of laughter, "It does happen occasionally. Right. We are going to be on desk together in two days when I get back to work since I can't be in a squad car with this," here, Andy gestured to the cast on her arm, "and by then we will both be single women."

Traci raised an eyebrow, "You're admitting I was right about homicide Luke?"

"You are right, that I don't love him, and that I agreed to move in with him for the wrong reasons, and that he isn't there for me the way he should be. I've been standing on the sidelines of my own life the last few weeks, watching myself fall apart and not knowing what to do about it. It's time to take action, and the first thing is to stop feeling like I'm faking it with Luke."


	11. Chapter 9

**A/N: I tried to upload this last night, but it wouldn't work for whatever reason, so this morning it is. Thank you for the reviews. I'm not happy with how I expressed all of the ideas in this chapter - feelings are difficult to put into words.**

She felt a little better once Traci had left. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her, and she realised that given her gift for talking, she should probably have told someone what was going on from the get-go. But hindsight is 20:20 and instead of dwelling on what she could or should have done, she decided to focus on the future: on sorting herself out, on repairing the damage she'd done, on getting to where she wanted to be – and who she wanted to be.

She wrapped her cast in a bin bag and took a shower. Washing her hair turned out to be a massive ordeal, and was clearly going to be the bane of her existence until her arm healed. She was glad she'd done it though, when she pulled on her most comfortable pyjamas and felt almost human again. She curled up in front of a film on the television to wait for Luke and tried not to feel nervous. She had _no_ idea what to say; whether to go with a variation of the 'it's not you, it's me' speech (problem: he could say that he didn't care) or whether to point out his shortcomings (problems: a. he had an ego the size of Vancouver, so he might not listen and b. he might pull the 'I can change' line, which she really didn't want).

It was gone ten when he rang the doorbell. He hadn't called to let her know how late he'd be, or even whether or not he was still coming. His lack of respect was infuriating and she dug her nails into the skin of her palm as she crossed the room to open the door for him.

"Hey," he said with a smile, no apology, no 'were you sleeping?'

He leaned in to kiss her and for the second time that day, she flinched away from him. A look of hurt flashed across his features and for a second, she did feel guilty, but then anger rose and overcame it. Roughly twenty hours ago, a man had tried to _rape_ her, then she and Luke had a fight and here he was trying to kiss her. She wanted to scream at him. What did he think would be going through her head?

_Don't apologise. Do NOT apologise, _she told herself.

She stepped back and let him into her apartment, and he started talking,

"The guy who attacked you? Jerry's linked him to at least three other rapes. It's absolutely huge ..."

Before he could even sit down, her mouth ran away from her brain and she blurted out,

"I want to break up."

_Smooth, Andy. Smooth_, she mentally rolled her eyes at herself.

He looked up sharply, "What? Why?"

She froze. This was the part where she hadn't been able to work out what to say. There were so many reasons why, although on paper they were perfect for each other, in practice they weren't working.

She felt like he wanted her to be someone she wasn't; like he wanted the white picket fence and the perfect domestic life and he wanted it _right now_, and he wanted her to be some Stepford-esque 50's housewife who loved and supported him … and kept her mouth shut. And she wasn't like that.

She felt like she was constantly scrambling to please him, making herself smaller and quieter and _less_ so that he would want her.

She didn't love him, wasn't even falling in love with him – and he didn't love her. If he loved anything it was some idea he had of her which bore little resemblance to reality.

He hadn't noticed that she was drowning.

"Because ..." she sighed and sat down, suddenly exhausted, "we just don't fit. And I don't want to keep feeling like I'm trying to force things."

Luke looked at her in disbelief. He half-smiled at her and began, "Andy, you've had a hard day. Why don't I come by tomorrow morning, when you have a clear head, and we'll have breakfast, talk this through. We're good together, we're moving in together. Don't do something you'll regret."

She bridled at the condescension in his tone.

"I'm not going to change my mind, Luke," she snapped. "We're through."

"This is because of Swarek. You want him."

It wasn't a question, but she shook her head anyway.

"It's got nothing to do with Sam."

He let out a breath of laughter and backed away from her, smirking.

"The _hell_ it doesn't. He's been gunning for you since day one, and the way you fawn over him, it's – it's disgusting; like you're a bitch in heat."

She looked at him, his all-consuming arrogance telling him that he couldn't _possibly_ be to blame, even a little bit, and she couldn't summon the energy to argue with him. Her decision to end things with Luke really didn't have anything to do with Sam, and everything to do with Luke and herself. But did she have feelings for Sam? She shied away from that question, the emotions it brought up too complicated to process in her current state.

"I think you should leave now," she told him, standing up, "I hope we can be civil at work."

He sneered at her and left without another word. She sat for a while, staring into space, her thoughts a jumble, her emotions too tangled up to tease apart, acknowledge and comprehend. She was too tired to even try.

When she finally stood, she moved slowly, as if through treacle.

She put herself to bed, making sure to lie on her left side, without her weight on her injured arm. She ended up sleeping curled in a ball, like a frightened child. When she woke a few hours later drenched in a cold sweat, her nightmares remained unchanged, but her reaction did not.

She didn't bolt for the bathroom, or the light. She stayed in her bed, and slowly her gasps for breath gave way to hysterical sobs. She curled in on herself, arms wrapped around her body, holding herself together. She turned her face into her pillow to muffle her cries – she didn't want to wake the neighbours, answer their questions or have them call anyone.

She was crying for a multitude of reasons.

She cried, not because of her break up with Luke _per se_ but for the loss of the idea of being with him, the loss of the idea of herself when she was with him, the loss of the idea that Luke was perfect and that his love would make her perfect.

She grieved for Sam, because even though intellectually she knew that he was perfectly fine, she _felt_ as if he had died. She cried for the shock and fear she felt between the Mermaid Lounge and the warehouse and the sense of overwhelming loss the contemplation of his death had left her with.

She cried because although she wasn't sure how she felt about Sam, or what she wanted from him, she was entirely sure that there was no possibility of anything lasting and meaningful between them now – how could he want her after she had rejected him time and again?

She cried for how lost she'd been, and how alone she'd felt. And for how stupid she felt now that she could see how many people would have been there for her if she'd only reached out for them.

She cried at the horror and violation of nearly being raped and the guilt she felt at the knowledge that she had put herself in the position for that to happen to her. She cried because of the rage she felt towards the man who had attacked her and her frustration at her feelings of helplessness; the knowledge that luck had played a much a part in her escape as anything.

She was barely aware of any of these emotions at more than the subconscious level. Mostly she was crying because she was overwhelmed and exhausted and just couldn't stop. She spent the rest of the night dozing fitfully, racked by more sobs whenever she woke. Morning found her emotionally wrung out, with blotchy eyes, a splitting headache and a snotty nose. She stayed curled in bed, unable to face a new day, and hoping for the oblivion of sleep.

The sound of someone knocking intruded on her carefully blanked mind. She hoped whoever it was would go away.

Then she heard the sound of the letter box opening, and a voice called through,

"Andy, honey, open the door. I know you're in there. It's only 7.30, there's no way you're out of bed yet. I can stand here all day if I have to, knocking."

She dragged herself out of bed and stood up. The head rush left her dizzy and she had to steady herself against the wall. She was pretty dehydrated and swayed on her feet as she staggered towards the front door. She opened it and looked at the man standing on the other side.

"Oh, baby girl. What have you done to yourself? Come here."

She had thought that she didn't have any tears left, but fresh ones pooled in her eyes as she stumbled into his waiting arms.

"Dad," she sobbed, "Daddy."

"It's OK, sweetheart. Everything's going to be OK."

Finally, _finally_ Andy McNally found the support she needed in her father's loving embrace.


	12. Chapter 10

**A/N: Well. Finally. I think I'd written most of this when I posted the last chapter, then I went over it and wasn't happy with it. I couldn't get it to go where I wanted it to. Then I had a migraine which lasted a week and was basically going to work then coming home and sleeping, so when I went back to the chapter I REALLY couldn't get it to go where I wanted. I'm still not entirely happy with it, it still doesn't cover everything I wanted it to, but I've decided that discretion is the better part of valour and that posting it lets me go on and write the next one. And hopefully that one will be better. And (should) get back to the main problem at hand of getting Andy and Sam together.**

Sobriety suited Tommy McNally. He stood in his daughter's doorway, held her in his arms, as she cried her eyes out and he wanted a drink. There was no use denying it. He pretty much constantly wanted a drink. He had realised that he would pretty much constantly want a drink for the rest of his life. The trick was in not having one.

One month sober – his 30 day chip often weighed heavily in his pocket – it was beginning to get easier to resist the siren call of the bottle. Today, his child distraught, was clearly going to be … complicated. Tommy McNally hadn't yet faced such a test of his sobriety, and he craved the oblivion of alcohol, to muffle the sound of his daughter's sobbing, to put her tear-streaked face a little less in focus. Tommy was lucky, then, that the first test to his recovery came when it was his daughter who needed him, his daughter for whom he had finally admitted he had a problem. His daughter for whom he had finally gotten help. He loved his daughter more than he loved being drunk, even if it hadn't always seemed that way to her. And now, she was falling apart, as he had after the demise of his marriage and so many other times, and she needed him to put her back together, as she had for him again and again and again. So he would.

He manoeuvred the pair of them over to the couch and sat with her, rubbing her back and making soothing noises. He didn't try to make her talk, he just let her cry herself out. Eventually her sobs slowed and finally stopped.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He was surprised, "What on earth for?"

"For crying all over you! Your shirt's all wet ..."

"My shirt will wash. I'm more worried about you. You want to talk about it?"

She was hesitant, "Not really."

"OK. I'll make us some breakfast, if you want?"

The idea of being babied, pretending she was five years old and none of this was happening, was incredibly appealing.

"Yes please."

"Good, because I brought bacon and eggs."

He made them into a smiley face with half a tomato for a nose, just like he had on Sundays when she was little and they were letting her mother lie in. She smiled in spite of herself, then sniffed – her nose still blocked from her crying jag.

"Were we supposed to have breakfast today?" she asked.

Her father shook his head, smiled, "No. I just thought I'd surprise you."

She had a feeling that someone from the precinct had phoned him to check up on her. She pushed the thought away. She didn't want to think about the attack, not now. She was halfway through her breakfast, mouth full of food, when without even thinking about it, she blurted out,

"I broke up with Luke."

Her father's reaction was not what she'd expected.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." He took a sip of his coffee and finally looked up from his paper. "Is that what you wanted sweetheart?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak for fear of bursting into tears again. After breakfast, her father did the dishes, packing her off to put her feet up and watch TV. She put on some sports channel, knowing he'd like it, and that she wouldn't see whatever was on the screen anyway. She drifted to sleep to the sounds of hockey and her father cursing her building's lack of hot water.

She woke, hours later, after dreamless sleep, to discover that her father had left. She found his note on the kitchen counter.

_Andy,_

_I didn't have the heart to wake you, you looked like you could use the rest. I've gone to a meeting. Call me if you need anything. I love you sweetheart._

_Dad_

He reappeared a while later with take out for dinner. They talked about inconsequential things. It was nice, to have someone treat her normally; not like a woman on the edge of a breakdown.

She was reticent to tell her father anything; to trust him, lean on him. She was worried that he would let her down again, as he had so many times throughout her teenage years. She was scared that any bad news from her would drive him straight back to the bottle. Years of standing alone, of being her own support system, held her back.

She remembered how she'd never allowed her friends to come over to her house back when she was in high school, because she could never be sure whether her father would be drunk or sober. An ornery drunk, she couldn't trust him not to pick a fight with a boyfriend or say something inappropriate to her friends. She had idolised him when she was a child. He'd always worked a lot, even before her mother had left and he'd needed the overtime. When he was with her, though, he'd always given her his full attention, had made her feel like she was the most important, most precious thing in his world. It had been a treat to stay up late and welcome him home (it had irritated her mother no end how excited she'd get), and their annual camping trips, just the two of them, had always been the highlight of her year.

It had been so painful to watch him fall.

He'd always enjoyed a drink. She had vague memories from when she was small of parties her parents had thrown, her father laughing uproariously, and twirling her mother round their living room. But then he'd been transferred to homicide, where he'd always wanted to be, and slowly but surely the man who'd drunk and laughed with friends, or had a beer or two at the end of the day had become the man who propped up the bar, or sat at the kitchen table drinking into the early hours, his only companions Jack and Jim.

But even knowing that he was an alcoholic, and how many times he'd let her down, she couldn't stop herself from constantly craving his approval. She desperately wanted to be a good cop, so that he'd be proud of her. She bought his groceries, did his housework, so that maybe he'd love her enough to stop drinking; to choose her over the bottle.

She remembered feeling faintly sick when she heard Melanie say about her husband, the man who _beat_ her, "he promised. He's never promised before." She thought of how many times her father had promised her something only to fail her. She knew Melanie's husband would hit her, just as she knew her father wouldn't be there for her – again, would instead get drunk and forget about her, or pick a fight.

But she'd never thought there'd come a time she would consider him capable of murder. And finally, _finally_ she'd found the strength to cut him off, to tell him she wasn't going to do it any longer. She'd broken the cycle, had finally accepted that he would _never _love her enough to choose her over his addiction. It was painful. It was terrible. It was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done.

It was also necessary for her own well-being.

And then he'd shown up on her doorstep, and told her that horrific story – given her an insight into _why _he had started looking towards alcohol for oblivion, and he'd promised her that he wouldn't do it again, begged her to give him another chance. And she'd chosen to give it to him.

She'd hated herself, a little, for giving in to him, but he was her father. What else could she do?

And now she was glad that she had.


	13. Chapter 11

**A/N: To those of you who are still with me, the biggest thank you you could possibly imagine. I am much happier with this chapter, I hope you like it. The last line comes from ER (possibly verbatim, I haven't checked).**

She came back to herself slowly, by degrees.

The first day back at work was the worst. Her dad greeted her with coffee as she bolted out of her front door, late as usual, informing her that he thought it would be nice if he drove her to work. She tried hard to hide her surprise, and probably didn't manage it.

Best called her into his office before she'd even managed to change into her uniform and told her that her attacker, Brian Price, had been connected – either by DNA or description to five other rapes so far. He'd been denied bail and was in the county lock up waiting for the detectives to piece together the cases and see how many counts he'd be charged with.

"He's not going anywhere, OK?" Best laid a hand on her shoulder, ""He can't come anywhere near you. You may not even have to testify."

She shook her head, "I want to, if it'll keep him off the streets."

Best nodded and then talked about her duties. She was to man the desk until her arm healed and he was cleared by both a doctor and a psychiatrist.

She nodded and bit her lip. She'd expected needing a clear bill of health from a doctor, but a psychiatrist? _She_ could barely work out what was going on in her head half the time, how on earth was she supposed to convince a stranger, a professional, that she was safe to patrol?

No sooner had she left Best's office, Luke pulled her into his. He trapped her against the door, his arm up above her head, leaning over her. She tried to stay calm. He turned a sad face with big, regretful eyes on her and said,

"I'm really sorry about what I said the other night, Andy. And I know there must be things you regret saying too."

_Not really_, she thought, but before she could open her mouth, he continued,

"And I was wondering if you could forgive me, for what I said, and things could go back to how they were before."

He turned his megawatt, golden boy smile on her, the one that had made her heart skip a beat and her tongue trip all over itself that first day she'd been on the job, and met him – and met Sam, and felt … nothing. She waited another second, her eyes searching his face, just to check that she hadn't made the wrong decision. She thought that she might feel some regret, some anger at herself for screwing their relationship up, but she felt nothing at all. She chose her words carefully and said them slowly, so that he couldn't mistake her meaning.

"Thank you for apologising, that means a lot, but it's not about forgiving you. I mean what I said. I'm sorry, Luke, but we're done as a couple. I need to go now, otherwise I'll be late for parade."

She fumbled for the door handle with her good arm and bolted out. The first pair of eyes she saw upon exiting were Sam's, and she promptly blushed furiously, even though there was nothing to blush _about_, and almost bolted to the women's locker room to (finally!) change into her uniform.

Parade was _awful_. Everyone went silent as she went in, so she hesitated at the doorway. It was Dov who rescued her. Coming in behind her, he slung an arm round her shoulders and whispered in her ear,

"You are _so_ rock and roll, McNally. You should have heard the guy scream when they set his nose – Jensen told me he sounded like a banshee. Badass, my friend."

And she grinned, relaxed enough for Dov to get her to her customary seat by Traci.

Best drew no attention to her throughout the briefing, skipping quickly through the names when it came time for him to call their assignments. She was grateful to him for that.

Gail had been rotated to work with Sam. Even though Andy knew that she owed Gail her thanks, and an apology for being such a bitch to her. Even though Gail and Chris are unofficially-officially back together and serious, she couldn't help the stab of jealousy that went through her at the knowledge that Gail would be spending the day with Sam. She refused to think about why, packed away the feeling for examination later, when she was alone.

On desk, everyone stared. Traci told her that she was being paranoid, but Andy noticed how Traci stood by her side throughout the day, and how she openly glared at anyone who came too near. Trying to ignore everything going on around her, and get on with work, she realised how awkward the next few weeks were going to be – typing with one arm took nearly four times as long, a mathematical improbability. After most of the officers rostered on had gone out on patrol, she and Traci started covertly swapping the stories of their respective evenings. When Andy reached the part of her conversation with Luke where he called her a bitch in heat, Traci was suitably incensed,

"He said WHAT?" she nearly shrieked, causing everyone in a twenty foot radius to turn and look at them.

"Traci!" Andy giggled and had to grab her friend's arm to make Traci look at her. Traci was busy searching the room, presumably for Luke, so she could kick his arse.

"It doesn't matter." Andy smiled to show Traci that she meant it, "Really, it doesn't. We're over, we're done. He can think what he likes. I don't care."

This wasn't entirely true. That this man, who she had been preparing to spend her life with had so little respect for her had hurt, of course it had, but the heady knowledge that she was _free_, that she didn't have to go home and pretend to be perfect, have a conversation with someone who was perfect, so much so that he had roughly the same personality as a block of wood, more than made up for any insult Luke could throw at her. And she _really_ didn't need Traci sucker punching Luke in front of the whole division and bringing her personal life even more into work than it already was. To distract Traci, she asked,

"What about you and Dex? How'd that go?"

Traci sighed, shook her head, "Not well. And _that_ is an understatement. I told him that it wasn't working, that I was with him for Leo's sake, and that I wasn't happy. I said that of course I wasn't going to just kick him out, but that I wanted him to move into the spare room and start looking for a new place ..."

Traci broke off as a woman came up to the desk wanting to talk to someone about her next-door-neighbour's noisy dog. Andy waited impatiently, one finger typing a report while Traci dealt with the woman and sent her one her way.

"And?" she demanded before Traci had even sat back down.

"And … He threw a complete tantrum, called me a bad mother …"

Andy gasped and shook her head.

"Then he stormed upstairs," Traci continued, "Said he wouldn't stay where he wasn't wanted, and started throwing stuff in to a suitcase. He made loads of noise, on purpose, so he woke Leo up. Leo asked him what was happening, and Dex said … " Traci broke off, clearly very upset, "Dex said that 'Mummy didn't want us all to live together any more and she was sending Daddy away.' So, of course, Leo started crying and was grabbing onto his legs, screaming 'No Daddy, don't go!' and yelling that he hated me. And I started tearing Dex a new one for using Leo as a weapon, and Dex was still shouting at me for being a witch, at least he managed not to swear in front of Leo," Traci rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Dex finally left, and Leo has refused to speak to me since."

"Oh, my God, Traci. That ..." Andy couldn't think of a word bad enough to encompass all of her fury towards Dex without insulting the father of her friend's child _too_ much and alienating her in the (hopefully unlikely) event that she and Dex reconciled.

"Jackass," Traci said. "I know."

"It'll get better, Trace. Leo will forgive you. My parents were away for my third birthday, left me with my grandparents. I didn't speak to my Mum for a week, but I loved her, so I got over it. Leo adores you, and you're his mum. You're a great mum."

Traci sighed, "I know. I just … hate seeing him unhappy."

"Look, you're not going to stop Dex from seeing Leo, are you? Leo will be fine. More than fine. He's got you."

Traci smiled, albeit half-heartedly, "Thanks Andy."

With the two of them on desk, the day passed quickly, and she felt … better. Not back to normal, not entirely, but certainly better than she had for a while. It helped, being at work, being distracted from her thoughts, forced not to dwell on the attack, or her actions which had precipitated it, or why she'd acted out like that.

When Gail and Sam came in for the day, Sam chuckling at something Gail had said, Andy wanted to throw the stapler she was using at the bleached blonde head. To make sure she didn't do anything stupid, she turned to Traci,

"So what are you going to do about Jerry?"

Not that she particularly liked Jerry, but she had to admit he was an improvement on Dex.

Traci shrugged, "I'm not sure. I think … I need a break, for a while. And Leo will need a break before I introduce anyone. I need to be in the right head space, you know? Make sure I was doing it for the right reasons. I haven't spoken to him since, you know, I kissed him. I should probably apologise."

Andy snorted, "I doubt he minded."

Traci grinned, "No, I don't think he did, but still … it might have given the wrong impression … I shouldn't have done it, not while I was with Dex. But if I tell him I broke up with Dex _now_, he might think it's because of him, and I want to jump right back in to a relationship, and it wasn't because of him and I don't want to jump back into anything, and oh God, I sound like a crazy person."

"OK, it's OK. I totally get it. Just … give it a few days, and see how you feel and … then, I don't know, tell him you want to take things slow?"

"Yeah, OK." Traci's expression turned sly, "What are you going to do about Swarek?"

Andy blushed furiously, "Nothing, because we're just friends."

"Uh huh. Well, when you're ready to talk about it, you know where I am."

Andy was the last one out of the locker room that night; changing with her cast on slowed her down to a snail's pace. Traci had helped her as much as she could, but she had to go pick Leo up from her mum's, so Andy had told her to go.

When she exited, she caught sight of Sam and Gail, still doing their paperwork, and was surprised that Sam hadn't just pulled the seniority card to dump it on Gail and leave. He saw her and made his way over, smiling gently at her,

"So how was desk duty?"

"Oh, you know. Dull. I'll be grateful when this heals and I can get back out there," she gestured to her arm.

He grinned at that, "You will be, soon enough. Back where you belong." _… with me_

The unspoken words hung between them, both half wishing he had said it, both entirely sure that the other didn't want it.

She smiled, but it came out as more of a grimace, "Still, Gail, huh? Must be a nice change of pace. Anyway, I gotta get going. See you tomorrow."

She turned back as she left the station, only to see Gail leaning over to whisper in Sam's ear. She felt like she'd been punched in the stomach.

But she didn't hear what Gail said, or the almost sick expression of hopelessness on his face when he heard it.

Gail had been watching Sam's eyes follow Andy out of the door. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she leaned over and whispered,

"You should tell her you know." Then, off his questioning expression, a raised eyebrow and a half smile, "That you can't live without her."


	14. Chapter 12

**A/N: So, personally, I had very mixed feelings about the premiere, see author's note at the end ...**

Things got better.

Luke dragging her into his office to tell her that he was sure she'd changed her mind became Luke staring at her (constantly) whenever they were in the same room, which she could handle.

People stopped going silent whenever she walked into a room. They stopped looking at her like she was a victim. She noticed that their response was proportional to how bad her bruises were and started wearing a lot of concealer.

The feeling that she was _acting_ herself rather than just _being _herself receded to the point that most of the time it had faded completely. She remembered how to smile, how to laugh. She began to feel comfortable in her own skin again.

She was still having nightmares, but she started to manage to get back to sleep again after an hour or so, which pretty much doubled the amount of sleep she was getting and meant that her appetite began to return. That, and she had a feeling that Traci had talked to Gail, so Traci was simply putting food in front of her and then looking at her disapprovingly if she didn't finish it. She had a feeling that Leo finished all of his meals.

She even made it to the Penny a couple of times, and drank sensibly; a couple of beers and a shot or two because she felt like it and she wanted to have fun, not because she wanted to pass out.

Things became less awkward with Dam. When they passed each other in the corridor, or bumped into each other at the bar, they began to get into their old rhythm, teasing and joking around. It helped. A lot. She knew that once her arm healed and she was cleared for patrol that she wouldn't be riding with him, that he'd requested another partner.

The rumour mill didn't seem to have gotten around to spreading that she and Luke had split up, thankfully. Luke had clearly told no one, and she'd only told Traci who obviously hadn't passed it on to anyone. She was happy to keep it that way, for a little while. She didn't need more stares, more speculation. Not until she'd processed how she felt, put herself back together some more.

One evening, Dov tried to talk her into going to the Penny after shift, but it had been a long day – a woman who'd been beaten by her boyfriend had ended up camped out in front of the desk with her kids whilst they tried to find a shelter with space for them. There were three kids, the oldest was four, and for the whole day at least one of them was crying, unable to understand what was going on.

All she wanted was a bath and bed.

The other rookies all went, though, laughing and joking, Dov making a sold attempt to drink his won weight in beer. After a while, Callaghan showed up. They ignored him. After all, he wasn't their friend, never even made an effort to get to know them. He was just Andy's boyfriend. But then, instead of hanging out with some other detectives, Callaghan went to talk to some new rookies from the ninth, and one in particular.

Pretty soon he and the brunette were sitting at a table by themselves. They laughed. A lot. Luke was sitting as close the girl as was feasible without her ending up in his lap.

Dov was at the bar, getting another round of drinks, but Gail was enraged on Andy's behalf and didn't understand why Traci wasn't more pissed off. After five minutes of Gail fidgeting and huffing, Traci finally caved,

"Look, they broke up, OK? Andy's keeping it quiet because she doesn't want the gossip."

"Oh." Gail was silent for a minute. "That's a shame," she added, insincerely, "Maybe they'll work it out."

Traci snorted, "Not after what he said."

She had piqued Gail's interest, "Why? What'd he say?"

"He called her a 'bitch in heat' around Swarek."

Part of Gail thought Callaghan had a point, but to Traci she showed the other part, which was aghast, "He. Did. Not."

Traci nodded, "Oh, he did."

Gail brooded on that for a couple of minutes and then turned to Traci, smirked and raised her eyebrows.

Traci shook her head, "No. No, we are not getting involved."

"If we don't, Swarek's going to. Look at him. And my way's less bloody."

Traci looked over at Sam, and saw that he was staring at Callaghan. Shaw was next to him, valiantly attempting to distract him, but it was clearly a losing battle. Traci sighed,

"OK. What's the plan?"

Gail grinned, and explained. Once she'd finished, Traci shook her head,

"He knows Andy and I are friends. If we do it that way, he'll know it's on purpose."

Gail nodded, "Good point. So we switch ..."

On the other side of the bar, Sam had finally had enough. Callaghan was leant over, whispering in the girl's ear, and running his finger up and down her forearm. Sam made to stand, but Oli laid his hand on Sam's shoulder to hold him back,

"I think the ladies have it covered, Sammy." He nodded over to Traci and Gail.

Gail had divested Dov of the pitcher of beer he'd bought and was walking backwards, swaying slightly as if drunk and apparently listening to Traci who was gesticulating wildly and also a little unsteady on her feet.

"So, no word of a lie, we stop this guy and he is off his head on _something_, and we're trying to talk to him, right, and he starts blathering on, I am not joking, saying 'And you were like 'Whoa!' and we were like 'Whoa!' and you were like 'Whoa!' and we were like ..."

At which point, Gail 'tripped' over an imaginary outstretched foot, stumbled and managed to tip the entire pitcher of beer over Homicide Luke's head, miraculously leaving the innocent rookie from the ninth bone dry.

Gail promptly babbled apologies and grabbed a handful of napkins to dry Callaghan off – and 'inadvertently' managed to make things worse. Traci made a quick exit and went back to Dov, who muttered something about a waste of perfectly good alcohol. Luke eventually stalked out of the bar, dripping wet, head held high, back stiff and Gail managed to make it back to them, smiling smugly, then rounded on Traci,

"Really? _Finding Nemo_?"

"I'm sorry! It was all I could think of! Leo is obsessed at the moment!"

"Well, maybe he won't recognise it. He doesn't strike me as a cartoon kind of guy ..."

Gail was interrupted by Oliver placing a tray containing a fresh pitcher and a round of shots on the table.

"Drinks are on Sam and me tonight. We opened a tab for you." He shook his head, chuckled, "Nicely done, you two. Best laugh I've had in months."

"All right!" Dov exclaimed, "You are forgiven for losing my pitcher."

Gail rolled her eyes, "Thanks for that, Dov. It would have kept me awake at night."

The evening passed quickly. They drank, they laughed. At one point, a considerably more inebriated Gail approached Sam, who, following the Callaghan incident, was actually in a fairly good mood.

"You were good," he said, by way of greeting.

She grinned, "Of course. I'm always good."

He chuckled at that, went back to staring at his glass, brooding. Finally, he asked,

"Are you going to tell McNally?"

Gail shook her head, "Nah. Traci might though, I suppose." Then, wondering if she was drunk enough, or at least _appeared_ drunk enough to get away with this, added casually, "Doubt she'd care, though, given she broke up with him last week."

Sam's head snapped round so fast Gail thought he might hurt his neck.

"What?"

"Yeah ..." and then as if she'd suddenly realised what she'd said, Gail clapped a hand over her mouth, "Oh! Andy only told Traci! I'm not even supposed to know. She doesn't want the gossip queen formerly known as Epstein getting wind of it, so … umm … don't mention it, yeah?"

Sam frowned, "So if he wasn't cheating on her, why'd you tip a pitcher of beer over his head?"

"'Cus he was an arse about it. Said some things he shouldn't have." Then, seeing the look on Sam's face, held up her hands, "Which are none of your business and not anything you should get involved in or concern yourself about. That and we thought you might have been about to beat him to death."

The bartender reappeared with Gail's shot. She raised it, winked at Sam and whispered in his ear,

"To the demise of Ken and Barbie."

**A/N 2: On the one hand, I was massively over excited about the premiere, on the other I was frustrated that there have been very subtle, unexplained shifts in Sam, Andy and Luke's characters. I'm very vaguely cooking up a one-shot for Sam's changes, Andy's gone from being extremely ambivalent about her relationship with Luke to fully committed and Luke is FAR more invested. I wrote the section where he came into the bar and the rookies don't care the day before the premiere, and then lo and behold at the end of the ep he goes into the bar with Andy _and goes to talk to the rookies. _This has NEVER happened before. It's very clearly because the writers/producers have gone "Oh shit, we wanted a love triangle for dramatic effect, but then we wrote a really bland, boring character acted by a fairly bland, boring actor, and put him against a very interesting, likeable character acted by an incredible actor who could take dreadful dialogue and make it fantastic and then, shockingly, the audience wanted the other guy. Right. Better make the boring guy a bit more likeable ..."**

**Biased? Me? Nah ...**

**(Also, I don't really mean to insult Eric Johnson but he does only seem to play bland characters, so either he's typecast or ...)**


	15. Chapter 13

**A/N: Please see the next chapter, which is not in fact a chapter, but the world's longest author's note. I debated about posting it, but ... this is a subject I am extremely passionate about. It is my opinion, and only my opinion. If you're not interested in my rant ... ignore it.**

By the end of shift the next day, Gail was ready to strangle Sam Swarek.

"Oh, for the _love_ of _God_, would you just _talk_ to her?"

"Talk to who?"

Gail turned a fierce glare on him.

"The Queen of Sheba! Who do you think?"

"I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"You have been brooding _all day_. And snapping at me ALL DAY! So would you just _go and talk to Andy_ instead of taking your frustration out on an innocent bystander?"

He snorted, "I highly doubt that you've ever been innocent, Peck."

She laughed at that. He was silent for a minute and then his expression turned serious,

"I'm sorry. For what I said the other day. It was wrong of me, very wrong. I just ..."

"Wanted someone to take it out on. I know. You should probably try to stop doing that. It's … forgiven. Thanks. For apologising." She paused for a second, then said, "I _swear_ to _God_, though, if you don't talk to her this evening, I am _not_ getting back into this car with you."

Sam smiled, "Fair enough."

They'd been caught up, right at the end of shift with the mugging of an elderly lady, and he'd missed Andy in the locker rooms.

And so it was that he found himself standing on her doorstep, palms sweating, the two whiskies he'd drunk warming his belly.

She opened the door, frowned at him in confusion,

"Sam? What are you doing here? Is everything OK?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. Look, can I come in?"

She nodded, still looking bewildered and stood aside. She came to stand with him in her living room, and years of social conditioning kicked in, so she asked,

"Would you like anything to drink?"

"No thanks." He paused, looked away from her, ran a hand through his hair and finally he asked, "Why didn't you tell me that you and Callaghan broke up?"

She took a step back from him, wrapped her good arm across her stomach – hugging herself and bit her lip,

"Because ..." she couldn't look at him. She let out the air in her lungs in a rush, took another deep breath,

"Because ..." did it again, and finally said,

"Because, Sam."

"Well, that was enlightening McNally. Thanks."

He turned, and made to leave. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then she said, again,

"Because ..." He turned and saw how she was fidgeting back and forth on her feet, her eyes darting around the room, the floor, the ceiling – looking anywhere but at him,

"Because, I didn't know what you'd expect. Because I didn't want you to think that _I_ expected anything … I don't, by the way. Not after how I've acted. Because I was embarrassed, I didn't want to admit that I'd made the wrong choice. Because I'm a mess. Even before ..." she paused, took a breath, made herself say the words, "before I was nearly raped," she saw Sam flinch, "I was a mess." She took another deep breath and finally, finally, she looked at him, "Because, although on one level I feel completely safe with you, on another you absolutely terrify me."

She huffed out another breath, this time in irritation, "Because, Sam."

Sam was momentarily stunned by the flood of words and emotions. All he could do was stare at her.

She threw up her hands, "And now you're looking at me like I'm a crazy person."

He took a step towards her, hands outstretched, palms up, as if her were approaching someone standing on the edge. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, _I've always looked at you like you're a crazy person_, but he realised that now might just not be the best time for his usual humour. He looked at her carefully, trying to decide the best approach.

"I definitely don't think you're crazy. That was just …" he chuckled, shook his head, "You really over thought that, huh?"

She closed her eyes and turned her head away from him. He reached his hand out and placed his fingers under her chin, then slowly, carefully, turned her head to face him.

Softly, he asked, "What do you mean, I frighten you?"

There was a long pause, and then finally, she answered,

"Because you push me."

He jerked back as if he'd been scalded – the words she'd used, drunkenly, to shove him away, almost physically painful to him.

"No! No, Sam. It's a good thing. It's just scary." She paused, frustrated, trying to get her thoughts into some semblance of order., "It's like … It's like you see the best I could be. And whenever I'm being childish, or stubborn or pathetic, you see me without that. Not like you put me on a pedestal, or like you think I'm perfect, but like you see all my potential, you know? The cop and the, the _person_ I'll be in five years once I've got the hang of it. Still me," she smiled, "still flawed, but _better._ And it's great … but being asked to live up to your full potential? It's frightening, too."

He watched her, steadily, aware that their relationship was currently on a knife edge, that his words – here and now, would push it one way or the other.

"McNally ..." a tilt of his head, "Andy … I think that you're going to be great. Hell, I think that you _are _great. And I don't want you to change. At all." He smiled, "Sometimes I wish that you were a little less reckless, but I want you to stay just the way you are."

He laid a hand against the side of her face and repeated, his voice little more than a husky whisper, "_Just_ the way you are."

There was a long pause where they just stared at each other, and then she was closing the gap between them, tilting her head up to meet him, laying her hand on his chest.

Her choice. As always, he left it up to her.

She met him in a kiss.

This kiss was different from the others that they had shared. It wasn't heated and desperate, Andy trying to get out of her head, or a warning and a promise; _stay safe, I will_. It was soft, gentle, sweet.

Sam's other hand had settled on her hip, but he used the one still cupping her cheek to tip her head back a little further and deepen the kiss. Sam was very careful, very gentle with her. He held back, kept himself firmly reined in. He knew that she was still going to be very skittish around him, especially considering her recent experiences and he didn't want to do _anything_ to make her push him away, to cause her any doubt or any pain.

And then Andy made a soft sound of pleasure at the back of her through, somewhere between a whimper and a moan.

After that, things happened very fast.

All conscious thought flew out of Sam's head and his grip tightened on her hip. Instantly, Andy froze and then began pushing him away.

_Grass on my neck, blood on my tongue, pressed into the ground. Fear._

She backed away from Sam, hyperventilating, spots dancing in front of her eyes. Dimly, as if from far away, she was aware that Sam was cursing. All she could listen to was her own laboured, ragged breathing and the blood pounding in her veins.

Sam managed to get enough control over his temper to stop swearing and gentle his tone to say,

"Andy, sit down. Put your head between your knees."

He was scared to touch her. He was perfectly aware that her reaction wasn't personal. Had, in fact, nothing to do with him, but he wasn't sure what to do or say to help her through it. Finally, he went and grabbed a blanket from her head and draped it over her still standing form. He swore again. Clearly, gentle wasn't cutting through whatever fog she was in.

"Officer McNally, sit down!" he ordered, biting off the words. She responded to his tone, to his use of her rank and sat.

He knelt in front of her and started talking, gentle words in almost nonsense sentences, the meaning not mattering so much as the sound of it – or so he hoped. A soothing rumble to bring her back to him.

Slowly, her breathing calmed and steadied. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands. Sam just kept talking, rambling now, about a baseball game he'd been to a few weeks ago with Jerry.

He stopped when he heard a small, muffled voice say,

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Sam had been prepared for this reaction.

"You have nothing to be sorry about." He made the statement flat, firm.

He could see the guilt, the self-loathing, the fear written all over his fact. He struggled not to lose his temper – not with her, of course not, but with the low-life who had attacked her, who had hurt her.

_He won't want me. Not now,_ she thought, and the notion was terrifying, to awful to comprehend.

Sam was watching her steadily. She shied away from his gaze, refused to meet his eyes. Finally, his voice penetrated the panicked jumble of her thoughts,

"Do you think that I would _ever_ hurt you like that?"

She was surprised, "What? No! Of course not!"

He smiled at her, tightly, "Good. I didn't think so, but I just wanted to check. Because I wouldn't. Ever."

"I know," she whispered.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken, "And I don't _ever_ want to do anything … physically … that you don't want to do. Ever. And if we were to ever get to that stage, I don't want you thinking about anything other than me. And I intend to make sure that's the case."

He gave her a look so full of heat that it made her blush scarlet. He smirked at that and she turned her head and huffed in irritation.

"I didn't come here tonight so that you and I could ..." he struggled for the right words.

"Sleep together?" she suggested.

He hesitated, then said, "Right. Anyway, that's not what I was looking for. I came her because … Hell, I don't really know why I came, except because … Because I want you." He shook his head, "Not physically. Or at least," he flashed a grin at her, "not just physically. I want you. All of you. The awesome cop with a lion's heart, who's unable to shut up and who is so incredibly reckless I swear to God it's giving me grey hairs. All of it, OK? All of it."

She blushed furiously again as she said quietly, "I want you too, Sam. I just ..."

"I know. We go slow. Glacially slow. I shouldn't have pushed. I'm sorry for that."

He reached up tentatively to brush the hair from her face and instead of flinching away, she leaned instinctively into his touch.

It was a start, they both knew that.


	16. Author's note

I found writing this chapter very draining, which is why it's taken so long to post. Not because of the chapter itself, but what I was thinking about at the time. Rape has been in the news a fair bit recently, which may well have been what kicked off the storyline for me in the first place (originally, I was going to have an exhausted, possibly hallucinating Andy make a mistake on the job. I think one scenario I was considering involved her shooting a cat). For this chapter, and the next couple which I have been thinking about and planning, I drew heavily on conversations I had with a friend of mine a couple of years after she was raped when, away from her family for the first time since, the emotional after effects hit her hard and seriously impacted on her relationship with her lovely, wonderful, completely supportive then-boyfriend, now-fiance who I can not praise enough for how he acted in a horribly difficult situation. In thinking about what happened to her, and our conversations, I felt again what I had felt when she was talking to me – sadness in empathy for her pain, helplessness and inadequacy, because I had no idea what to say to help her, no idea if there was anything I even _could_ say, and felt that the most I could offer her was a willing ear and a shoulder to cry and lean on.

I also became incredibly angry.

Not just with the man who attacked her (he is the scum of the earth, and beneath my notice) but with the police, by whom she was treated incredibly badly. The scenarios I described for Andy, and similarly used for Sarah Swarek, are quite rare. Statistically, a man is more likely to be raped by a stranger than a woman is. Women tend to be raped by people they know (in 8 out of 10 rapes in the UK the two people involved know each other) – be it some guy she meets at a party, a neighbour, an ex or even her current partner. Unfortunately, rape then becomes very difficult to prove, as it is not whether the act occurred which is the issue, it is whether or not the woman consented. It really is her word against his, with little physical evidence to back either party. As justice systems the world over require guilt to be proven 'beyond reasonable doubt', with the majority of rape cases, this is near impossible. See the news at the moment regarding the head of the IMF if you want an example.

In the UK, our Prime Minister semi-regularly comments that the rape conviction rate (under 6%) is "appallingly low", but doesn't really provide any solutions to the problem. Let alone that the conviction rate doesn't take into account the many cases which remain unreported, because the victim is either too scared or ashamed to step forward, or doesn't see the point – given how unlikely it is that the perpetrator will go to prison. It also doesn't excuse the regular assumptions by the police that the woman is either lying (how my friend felt they acted towards her, and I agree), was too drunk to remember whether she consented/probably did consent because of the alcohol and regrets it, or that it was her fault for being out on the streets at 3am on her own dressed like a slut. I take that last one from comments made by a police officer from Toronto, ./news/world-us-canada-13320785 – which makes me think that the situation isn't so different for rape victims in Canada, and probably the world over.

I think that women should be able to walk wherever they want, whenever they want, without fear of violence or sexual violence. I think that a woman should be able to cartwheel down a high street _naked_ if she wants to, without worrying about more than catching pneumonia or getting arrested for indecent exposure. But that isn't the world we live in.

I, personally, don't think that there's a lot that can be done about the conviction rate for rape in itself. The suggestion of making drunkenness a barrier to consent is impractical, after all, when do the majority of one night stands happen? Further, one can't lower the threshold of 'beyond reasonable doubt' for such a serious crime as rape – again, justice systems the world over are based on the idea that it's better to let a guilty person go free than imprison an innocent. The answer, I believe, lies in reducing the number of rapes which actually occur. Studies, and the best I can come up with are both from 1999 – give me a couple of hours if you really want a better or more recent reference and I bet I can find it (Body Wars, Maine, 1999, quoted here .com/post/6729101810/eight-percent-of-college-men-have-either-attempted , for the USA and . for the UK) have shown that half of men think that it's OK to rape women in certain circumstances.

That figure speaks for itself.

I think that better sex education, with an emphasis on emotion in relationships, not just abstinence, or even the mechanics of contraception, but on safe, healthy sex, _for the right reasons,_ would be invaluable in dropping the number of rapes which occur. And, hey, it would probably lower teenage pregnancy rates too.

I agree that the onus is on women to protect ourselves – the difference is that I want to put the word 'unfortunately' at the beginning of that sentence.

To any rape survivors who are reading this -

If you came forward, I applaud your courage and would like to thank you for attempting to get your attacker off the streets, as well as hopefully helping future women who speak to the same officers that you did have their voices heard and obtain justice. Seriously, I have so much respect and admiration for your strength. Thank you.

If you have not yet come forward, I offer you empathy, support and the absolute knowledge that no matter the circumstances, it was not your fault.

I hope you have been, or will be able to find peace – not necessarily to forgive your attacker (I have absolutely no idea if I could do that, in fact I doubt that I could, so I can't expect others to) - but are able to move on with your lives, be happy, love others – and yourself.


	17. Chapter 14

**A/N: I'm back! I'm sorry! It turns out I'm much better at breaking my characters than I am at healing them. Anyway – this is an attempt at healing. An attempt at something a bit fluffier (you may or may not have noticed how I don't really do fluff). An attempt at sweet, fluffy, seductive Sam (I'm not sure how well it went. I like my Sam dark and angsty). I refer to Andy having a purse, rather than a handbag, which was almost physically painful, but I am writing about North Americans, so I suppose I should use North American words. Equally, I have her wearing a cardigan and I'm honestly not sure whether you lot call them cardigans or something else. It's knitwear which buttons up.**

Three weeks later, Andy had reached a conclusion; Sam Swarek was an _evil freaking genius_. She was unbelievably grateful, in fact, that he was in the side of the good guys, because otherwise he had 'criminal mastermind' written all over him.

It had been a good few weeks, even if she had still been stuck on desk. She'd told Traci about Sam's visit the very next day, which had been Traci's last day before going back on patrol. Instead of squealing with excitement as Andy had expected, Traci had just said,

"Well it's about damned time," and after seeing Andy's disappointed look, had laughed and continued, "Tell me everything. Leave no salacious detail unspoken."

So Andy had. And when she reached the part about how she'd frozen up, Traci had frowned sympathetically and gently said, "That's to be expected, Andy. You just need to give it time."

"But ..." and the longing look on Andy's face had stated just how plainly she did not want to give it time.

Traci burst out laughing, and for a minute, Andy laughed with her, but then she'd sobered up.

"Trace … what if he doesn't think I'm worth the wait? What if he thinks I'm too damaged?"

Traci had laughed harder for a second, but then she saw that her friend was, in fact, seriously worried and had told her firmly,

"Andy, the man is _crazy_ about you. Emphasis on the 'crazy'. And it's not like you're making him wait for _fun_, this is time you _need_. He'll wait. And if he doesn't, he's not worth it."

"That's the thing, Trace. He is. He said … exactly the right thing yesterday. I don't know how he does it, but he _always_ knows what to say."

Traci frowned slightly.

"What?" Andy asked.

"It's just … It's a really difficult situation, Andy. And he probably _won't_ manage to say the right thing every time; not even Swarek's that good, so just … _try_ not to freak out if he gets it wrong, and try not to hold it against him. He's only human … and he really is crazy about you."

Frank had her seeing the department shrink once a week, and had told her that even if her arm was healed, the guy had to clear her before she could get out of the barn. Even if she could see the sense of that, she didn't have to be _happy _about it.

They'd spent their first session in, what was for Andy, relative silence. She answered all of Dr 'call me Mike' Johnson's questions with monosyllabic responses. Five minutes before the end of their allotted time (she knew because she kept checking her watch surreptitiously) he finally spoke more than a one sentence question.

"Officer McNally …" and she got the sense of a speech he'd given a thousand times. "You may think that being here is a waste of your time, or you may think that it makes you weak. I don't know. What I do know is that 93% of your colleagues will find themselves in this office at least once in their career, most of them more than one. It's nothing to be ashamed of or worried about. And I can tell you that the vast, _vast_ majority of them pull a variation of the silent act you just gave me. I can help you. This can work. But it's you who's got to do most of the heavy lifting. I'm just here to push you in the right direction. It's up to me when or even whether you go back on patrol, so we can sit here, not talking, for as long as you like, but all it's doing is wasting your time."

"And yours," she couldn't help the sarky edge that crept into her voice.

He'd grinned, "Nah. I'll just bring paperwork."

The next week, he made her hand over her watch before the start of the session, and she managed to give him some two word answers.

It was progress.

She spent a lot of time with Sam, just the two of them, far more than they ever had before - outside of a squad car anyway. It was good for her. While she'd always been able to imagine Sam in … certain social situations, repeatedly in some cases (ahem), dating Sam, co-existing with Sam had not been something she'd been able to conceive. And she'd been half-worried that they'd end up snapping and griping at each other rather than bantering and teasing, but so far they were getting on well. More than well.

They stayed mostly in one or the other's apartment, both of them knowing that this – whatever 'this' was – was too new and too fragile to stand up to public (or rather, police) scrutiny. They tended to end up kissing most evenings, one or the other (usually Andy) unable to help themselves. But even though they stayed in pretty PG territory, and Sam resolutely kept his hands to himself or stationary in neutral ground, Andy would always pull away first.

It wasn't that she didn't trust Sam. Of course she trusted him, implicitly. It was sex that was suddenly a problem. It was a _bit_ like being a teenager again, caught between her wants and her desires, and her fear. Only it was a thousand times worse, because she knew what she was missing out on (in general) and was stuck with just her very fervid imagination in terms of Sam.

And she knew that Sam was right: she wanted the only thing she was thinking about when it did finally happen to be him, them.

But it was frustrating, in more than one sense of the word, and even though every time she stopped things he seemed perfectly relaxed and contented, she worried. It was just like being a teenager. Again.

It wasn't that she thought Sam would push her into anything (of course not) it was that whatever they were doing might _lead_ to sex, and as soon as the thought entered her head, she'd freeze up. There were points where she couldn't let him touch her, even to put an arm around her shoulders or hold her hand. And she knew how horrible that must be for him, how badly he wanted to be touching her all the time – roughly as much as she wanted to be touching him.

She felt guilty. And frustrated with herself. And angry.

And then she felt frustrated and guilty and angry with herself, because she felt frustrated and guilty and angry. It was infuriating

She didn't want Sam to have to treat her like glass. And she'd always considered herself reasonably adventurous when it came to sex. It wasn't like she'd ever swung from the ceiling neck to toe in PVC, but, you know, she wasn't completely vanilla.

So there she was, sat on her sofa in her apartment with Sam, her perpetually cold feet tucked under his legs, laughing as he told her about Dov's latest escapades as recounted to him by Oliver after shift.

_I love you._

_Oh._

Oh.

_I love him_.

It was a revelation. She examined it for a moment, turning it over in her mind. When she looked at Sam a few seconds later, he was staring at her. She blushed and ducked her head, smiling.

"What?"

"Where'd you go? You missed the ending of the story."

She shook her head, fluttered her hand in a brush off gesture, "I'm sorry. Just tired, I guess."

She wasn't quite ready to deal with her new found feelings herself, let alone for Sam to know about them. She pushed the emotions to one side, to think about later, when she was alone, for when she was more sure of her ability to function. He looked at her like he didn't quite believe her, but let it go, shrugging and nodding.

"So I was thinking ..." he began a while later.

"Well that's dangerous," she said, with a grin.

"No, McNally, it's only dangerous when _you're_ thinking."

"Hey!" She was affronted enough by that to take one of her feet out from under his thighs and poke

him with her toes.

Sam just smirked and continued, "So, I was_ thinking_ … you get your cast off tomorrow. We should go for dinner, to celebrate."

Without meaning to, she jerked her head up, stiffened slightly.

"You mean like a date?"

And she so wanted it to _be _a date, and then again she didn't, because it would feel like too much pressure – not for _that_, but just to be date-Andy, which she couldn't be because Sam already knew her and all of her annoying habits, and it was just all too damn confusing …

And even in her own head she was rambling.

He noticed her hesitation instantly, of course, and shrugged, "It's some food, McNally, not a death sentence. Call it a date, don't call it a date. I'm not worried."

She smiled radiantly at him, her head suddenly calm and silent.

"Sure, that sounds like fun."

Sam-on-a-date was another thing she hadn't been able to imagine. It was something she'd like to see.

Later, as she got ready for bed, after he'd left, she thought about Sam-on-a-date. She really couldn't imagine the man who had a non-uniform uniform of t-shirts dressed to impress – especially not for _her. _She wondered if usually on a date he would smooth himself out a little – a little less caustic, a little less biting, a little more charming – and she couldn't decide on the answer. She thought that maybe he didn't, like a test for women who might not be worthy. In fact, she found the idea of him working hard to impress someone unnerving. Sam was _Sam_ and as much as she might bitch about him sometimes, she liked him just as he was. He shouldn't have to change himself for anyone.

And she supposed that with her, he wouldn't, what with her already knowing about his explosive temper, _far_ too sharp tongue and inability to tell people what he was really pissed off (fishing cabins being a prime example). And Sam already knew about her family, her … intimacy issues, the amount of coffee she required to function, and that she _didn't _only eat salad.

And he didn't care.

So … that was good. Probably.

She struggled into her pyjamas one-armed for the last time (thank God) and fell asleep a tangled mass of excitement and trepidation.

She had the day off, so that she could have her cast removed, get her arm looked at, see the shrink and hopefully get cleared for duty. It all went swimmingly; her arm was fine, even if the skin under the cast was about six shades lighter than the the rest of her. Johnson ummed and aahed a bit, but he cleared her eventually … though he was still making her see him once a fortnight. All in all, she was in a pretty good mood come seven o'clock when Sam knocked on her door.

And the second she opened it and saw him, she was in a _very _good mood.

She was glad she'd made an effort with her appearance, because _Sam_ was wearing a _shirt_. OK, so it was grey (clearly, the monochrome theme wasn't going anywhere), untucked, tie-less and paired with jeans and a leather jacket, but it had _buttons_. She hadn't been sure that Sam owned a shirt with buttons.

And he looked very, _very_ good in it.

So she was glad of the sleeveless v-neck black dress with the flippy just-above-the-knee skirt she'd paired with a red belt and red cardigan, and also glad that she'd left shoes until he'd arrived. Not that men ever noticed that kind of think, but if he'd shown up _really_ dressed up, she'd have put her red heels on and probably thrown on a bit more make up. As it was, her eye liner and lip gloss suited just fine and she was gratified by the way his eyes traced her legs as she put on her flats.

"Everything OK with the doc? Arm good?"

"Yep," She smiled, broadly. "All better. I can go back out on patrol tomorrow."

He smiled back at her, "Good. That's good."

He took her right wrist as she met him by the door, pushed the sleeve of her cardigan up to her elbow and ran his hands over her arm. Apparently satisfied, he turned her arm over and placed an open mouthed kiss on the inside of her wrist, mumbling as he leaned in,

"Looks good. _All _of you looks pretty good."

He drew back, smirking, which she knew was due to the way her pulse rate had spiked when he'd kissed her.

She blushed and covered with, "Yeah, well, I'd forgotten how much easier it is to do your hair with two working arms."

He smiled at the joke and, eyes never leaving her face, jerked his head towards the truck,

"Shall we go?"

He took her to a tiny little Italian mama's kitchen in a not very good area of town. Off her hesitant look, he flashed her a grin, fully working the dimples, and a challenge in his gaze,

"Trust me. I ever steered you wrong McNally?"

She rolled her eyes and didn't answer – he liked it too much when he was right. He didn't touch her as they walked in and he held the door for her, but she could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

Butterflies took nest in her stomach. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

Inside, it was all rustic wooden tables and candlelight – absolutely gorgeous. Sam Swarek – romantic, who knew?

The host, an older gentleman, and from the way he talked, clearly the co-owner and husband of the chef, greeted Sam warmly – then chided him for not being in for a while. Sam took it with a good natured smile.

When they sat, he didn't look at the menu, just kept looking at her. Unable to meet his gaze, she kept her eyes firmly on her own menu.

"So, what's good?"

"Everything."

She glanced up at him in surprise and he smiled, "No, seriously. Everything. They make the pasta fresh, though. You might like the ravioli."

She ordered his recommendation, he had a steak (big surprise). They shared a bottle of wine – which they didn't even have to order, the owner simply appeared once they'd chosen their food and poured it for them, stating firmly,

"This is what you want to drink."

And, surprisingly, even though she'd ordered seafood and Sam red meat, two foods that did not traditionally lend themselves to the same wine, it worked. Sam was wrong about the ravioli; she didn't like it, she _loved_ it. Melt in the mouth pasta, fresh seafood, slathered in butter with hints of lemon and chilli to balance it out. It was fabulous.

More fabulous was the way Sam didn't take his eyes off her, not once. He spent the entire evening looking at her as if she were the only person in the room, as if she were the most precious thing in it.

She was half-elated, half-terrified by his scrutiny.

He didn't touch her, throughout the entire meal, just stared, and whenever he spoke he did it in that soft, low, rumbling voice that made her insides melt.

At one point, in an attempt to deflect some of the attention (Sam-on-a-date had turned out to be almost overwhelmingly intense) she sputtered,

"The food is _fantastic_. If this is a seduction, I gotta say, it ain't going badly. This your grand master plan, Sam? You bring all your hot dates here?"

He looked amused, and surprised, "No. I've been coming here for years, since I was a kid."

She realised that he was opening up, or maybe that he'd always been a little bit open with her – she'd just had to learn to read between the lines. She was floored by the implication he'd just made, _this is a place for family_. She was caught, again, between elation and fear, at the revelation of how _much_ he cared about her, how serious he was about them. How badly it could all go wrong. She took a sip of her wine in an attempt to cover her confusion. She didn't think it worked.

He continued as if he hadn't seen her moment of panic, "And no, no seduction. Not yet."

Which left her wondering – if this wasn't a seduction, what would he do for that?

And then he carried on, "Not unless you want it to be."

She couldn't help the emotions that flashed over her face – desire for him, fear, irritation at his arrogance.

He chuckled a little, "No, not a seduction. Not yet."

She managed to meet his eye, half smile, pretend that – for reasons she couldn't put words around even to herself - her heart wasn't beating over a hundred times a minute.

Half a bottle of wine left her pleasantly mellow. After dinner, they had coffee and biscotti, sitting and talking and laughing, and … it was perfect. She couldn't have asked for a better first date.

Afterwards, he drove her home and walked her to her door. By that point, Andy was practically jumping out of her skin with anticipation, because he _still _hadn't touched her since they'd left her place earlier that evening.

He was silent, one arm out, leaning against the door frame, as she started fishing around in her purse for her keys, so in traditional McNally fashion, she started babbling,

"So I had a really great time, you were actually right, that place is amazing, you'd never know it from the out-"

While she talked, he'd manoeuvred them so that he had both hands flat against the door, boxing her in, then he leant down and cut her off with a kiss. It was different from the other kisses they'd shared recently, because he was in complete control of it. He started out slow and gentle, until her hand came up of its own volition and fisted itself in the front of his shirt, then he tilted his head slightly more, opened her mouth a little further with his tongue, and _really_ kissed her, slowly and thoroughly until she felt it down to her toes, until her insides were liquid heat.

And then he stopped, pulled back ever so slightly and with his mouth still close enough to be ghosting over hers, he said, "See you tomorrow, McNally."

Her hands were trembling as she opened the door to her building. She was quite surprised that her legs managed to carry her up the stairs.

Sam Swarek – Evil. Freaking. Genius.


End file.
